Lostness   (67)




This pen, urged across a page
by underlying restlessness…



“Is my needing to create, another form of bondage?”


If writing springs from lack
one could attempt a floating-free

leave laden bookshelves to the intellect
move through uncluttered psychic space
not chained in data’s thrall
with knowledge indexed and textual
against mere being.


Supposing only heart heals heart
hence words, alone,
fail to suffice

fearing the day
we must release
safe grip upon
our guarded selves

yet feeling fully unprepared

missing any surety
to compensate such doubt


Here, atheism can spread
an elemental isolation

while believers sense
non-visible observers

risking judgement
via unseen eyes.




(Might it shrink life’s dignity:
providing brief distraction
for imagined deities?)







Does “god” explain
if we cannot explain god?



Religion correctly identifies
problems of existence
but gives
those certain answers
many struggle to accept

where notions act
as sustaining
cultural glue
absence seems both actual
and conceptual


Easily mocked
are stories people tell
helping rouse their tired souls
to try again

How well, then, may
questioning enthuse
or scepticism motivate?




When time is all we have
comes dread at wasting it

about a fruitless search
for purpose

some lost interest

(perhaps obsessive,
even held essential)

which led nowhere

now discarded



Like old things
left broken

that once

were loved.







(Artwork on the blog is mine. I hope you like it!)


(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/lostness/love/mental health/poetry/thoughts)








Tortured reason





Lostness   (66)


We can torture reason in the name of spirit


Once doubt begins to doubt itself.


Am I on a path already
or only lost?

Does depression cloud my sight
through defensive negativity?


That charge appears unfair
when striving at belief
not for comfort
but for truth

and trying to add beauty
rather than
be a dark
in darkness


after words fall away
what remains, except
this void from letting go
of everything
while lacking faith
in anything

unless, perhaps,
minus rebirth
equals more than emptiness?


If religion gives no consolation
why make those efforts
it demands?


God is an answer
breeding questions…


upon originating origins

whether malign outcomes
excuse a cause

people still worship higher powers
without responsibility
keen to punish weak mortals
over almost universal faults.


How often are we willing
to put aside
hard-won convictions

even briefly
sense them teeter
at a brink of chaos

recoiling from imagined shame
before life’s enigma
like cryptographers who
forget their key


Doctrine and rationality
might both prefer
leaving flesh behind
one to be pure soul
the other to be pure mind


Urges for transcendence
revealing alienation


also shown uncertain
noticed by an ebb and flow
where moods change faster than


just as daylight
now grown brighter
across my room
cuts around these
half-closed blinds



thinking it was dust

I tried to wipe a sunbeam
from the tablecloth.








(Any artwork on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.)


(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)








Some slight romance




Lostness   (65)


Belonging: arisen by separation
from what does not belong.


Inclusion that excludes.


Identity involves division.


Though minds may meditate over
problems of personhood
immune systems must decide immediately
between self
and other…

as, at tribal levels, xenophobia
might protect a culture
against outside influence.

Nerves aroused in fear
attend to threats;
hostility defending
under stress.


For anger
the world is full
of opportunity.


Talk being often democratic
feeling tends to bias
seeking affirmation
until a story sets
or grows mythic
exaggeration aiding recall
hence, perhaps, our ancestors
built memories around past glory
then those exemplars
gained rank
among heroes
turning, later, into gods
with legends read
toward heaven
and marked across stone.



Amid conflict
some attempt neutrality
though sitting on the fence
can make it harder to stand up
for anything.

Like learning ways to doubt
while lacking any method
of belief.



Even romance has downsides
reflected in my slight experience
on dates
where her needs seemed met
yet mine remained postponed
when she took a certain pride
at how much had been withheld.


Thinking back
the great reward of sex
for me
was assisting female pleasure
sharing which
to my surprise
(after such intense aloneness)
could still be done.


And thus I
went on clinging
to an idea
of love…

despite its long









(All artwork on the blog is mine. I hope you like it.)


(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/life/loneliness/lostness/love/mental health/opinions/poetry/thoughts/writing)





Random news





Lostness   (64)



Unshared experience is lost to the world.


During struggles with oblivion
might fatalism offer solace
for a botched existence
by transcending the indignity
of randomness?


Infinity, god, and zero


flash across my mind
as if not quite understood
like signs in search of full meaning…


A sudden racket, from outside, interrupted these thoughts.


Noise invades private space
against our will.
Triggering vigilance.
Becoming harder to ignore
or endure.


I reached for distraction
via a bedside newspaper…


Reading, first,
that psychopaths share great success
at producing children.

(Possibly a better evolutionary strategy
than writing poems?
Though not the best advertisement
for female mate-choice.)


Next, an article on cryogenics.

Thus some rich Americans aspired to avoid
life’s traditional twin certainties:
death and taxes.

(“Truths are not self-evident,” I mumbled,
“Men being made unequal.
Rights find wishes, recast as law.”)


A headline mentions “Community care”.

Yet cities lack community,
and nobody cares.

“Neglect in the community”
sounded less appealing?)


A reader’s letter, praising divine creation,
bemoaned devilish influences.

(Why god created Satan
went unconsidered.)


A book review questioned fiction
spanning barriers of class and gender.

should be a safer option;
given approved opinions?)


A survey revealed
celibates suffer twice the mortality rate
of men getting regular, weekly, sex.

“My situation is one long touch deprivation,”
I mutter, gloomily.

Having gone without such pleasure for years
perhaps there could be more
than mere hyperbole
to an admission that,


“I’m dying for it.”






(anxiety/art/blogging/depression/drawing/ideas/illness/life/mental health/poetry)




My mirror is an enemy




Lostness   (63)



My mirror is an enemy…

A zone of continual dissatisfaction
for someone humiliated by their own appearance.

In maleness
I already sensed myself
on eternal probation
under wary female scrutiny.

While, by beauty’s natural aristocracy,
fated to remain
hopelessly lower class.




Scanning a newspaper
next to the bed
it struck me how modern liberalism
looked aberrant amid history’s cruelty

(where “forgive, but remember”
seemed more prudent
than “forgive and forget”)

Much politics involved an imposition of will
by one group upon another
via law or force
as media stirred up complacency,
and impotence.






In illness-prone lives
may assume greater interest
than missions to the stars.

Given my current
exhausted state
going out has a value
above staying put;
like hunting over gathering
(though these days women also get to hunt,
men stuck at home might still
lose status and esteem).

Here I cope with exclusion
from normality
but since sexuality
refuses to die
proves elusive.

When loneliness drives me,
pushing through symptoms,
to social events
at times I experience an inkling
of being selected against
by evolution.



One recent challenge
to say something positive
about my life
almost provoked this reply:

“However submerged with uselessness
I have not entirely spared myself the effort
of attempting to think.”


Yet, that sounded a little too grand
so, instead,
changing the subject
by counter-question

I obtained a refuge
in silence.






(art/beauty/blogging/depression/drawing/illness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)


Too ill to blog!




Having not missed a Sunday post since August 2017, today I am laid low by fever.

Cannot get my mind together or focus on words.

Appetite is gone.

Collapsed twice yesterday and hurt myself.
Everything went dark.
Retain no memory of entering the kitchen, but came to, on the floor, looking at cabinets above me. Wondering how I got there.

Cut my ear and arm.
My head caught on a box as I blacked out the first time.
Seem to have injured my neck toppling backwards.
Just could not stay upright.
Fell heavily.

This experience worried me, as I am already fragile after decades of chronic illness.

Paramedics were sent to check blood pressure, heart, etc.

I imagine this must be the influenza, that I managed to avoid during winter?

Very sorry not to be able to blog.
Need to lie down again, now.
Am in a great deal of pain from the falls,
as well as aching and disoriented due to high temperature.


Hope you are well?


Please visit again next week.


Best wishes to you all!


Thank you.




(blogging/illness/life/loneliness/lostness/mental health/thoughts/writing)

Breaking a spell




Lostness   (62)




Chess often resembled my life:
an unsuccessful search
for a mate.


I grew slowly possessed by the game.

On empty days it was simply too interesting;
mesmeric with alien beauty.

What began as something to exercise the mind
could gradually take it over.

I had made a bad choice
since laborious progress in this skill
meant little to others;
whereas similar efforts at art, writing, or music,
might attract some attention;
reducing isolation.

Better, then, to reverse course,
giving up an unproductive pursuit…

But I seemed unable to break the spell
or rekindle dormant passions
(though still frustrated by their loss).

Creativity had been eroded
through illness and depression
plus, a more disturbing possibility:





Later, I considered why these opinions felt compelling.


In a sense, we are also victims of our beliefs.

They may make us defensive, predictable, rigid.

(As extreme doctrines mould extreme followers.)

Should one expect people to criticise what they find essential?
Surely, too much is at stake?

A humble incentive for faith could be
being weary of thinking
and wanting another to do it.

Yet would pride admit such a reason?





touched my arm

I thought of a particular girl
for the first time in years
which felt slightly odd
as I never ended a relationship
they all seem somehow unfinished
to me.


Perhaps only love
an existence like mine.


Will it ever






(beauty/blogging/chess/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)







Like the blues







Lostness   (61)



Flamenco speaks into my wounds
like the blues…

Sounding through
this lost life
that may soon go unmourned

across these empty hands
no child will ever reach for
as I stay unmarried
and unloved.


with so much darkness
absorbs spiritual resources

mine feel almost
used up.

An existence of mainly
lying around
exhausted by illness
trying passive activities
which fail at masking grief
while missing creativity

Unable to enjoy
what little I can do
or fully escape inside
some heartless cocoon
of the cerebral.


Struggling again
with self acceptance
and embracing imperfection
I ponder
how easily hate arrives
once we interpret action
in negative ways
how hostility takes offence
where not intended
preformed antipathy)
eroding consideration
or even the social lubricant
of manners.


I muse over advice for happiness
purpose, relationship, variety, attitude, health,
inner peace.
My score is zero, out of six:
aimless, alone, in monotony,
misery, sickness and turmoil.

But does seeing my plight
in tragic terms
shield me
from its paltriness?


I might need a decent fuel
of lies
to push aside depression

Since recent dreams fill
with the dead
a situation
before middle age.

I have merely learned
facing slow destruction
by inexorable forces
in crushing


And it occurs to me that

among other things

is also
not always wanting
to be somewhere else.






(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/mental health/music/poetry/thoughts/writing)



Underlain by sex




Lostness   (60)



I need a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet of my soul.


Where are higher powers
when you want them?


“No lie in the sky!”  sounded one atheist slogan
during unbelieving rage
days upon which, looking at our planet, it seemed
maybe gods should also ask forgiveness
from creatures suffering
to such creation

Here happiness appeared an irrational state
with misery and anger
taking typical positions
behind morality
against onrushing evil tides

Refusing contentment
until situations were put right
thus assuring vexation

(As argument demanding agreement
ensures its own frustration)

defers living
to search after unreachables

Trying too hard
denying animality
buffoon versus baboon
or remembered child
that messed his pants
shamed before a looming parent
when my arse followed me
like a judgement.


beneath ethics
lurks aesthetics.
underlain by sex
fired through hormones
hence desire overcomes distaste
then other bodies turn



In the end
at two extremes
we find
those seeing all
as evidence of divine presence
opposing those seeing the same
as showing only
divine absence.


if people who abhor reality
require religion more

what about this particular

Might it grow so intense
I’d begin mumbling at deities
(while lacking faith in their actuality)
merely from an urge to complain?

even confessing
I need
a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet
of my soul.






(art/atheism/blogging/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)


Thinking about women




Lostness   (59)



Entangled by illness, yet still thinking about women…


If only I didn’t adore them so much.


I am mired here
amid lingering discontents
of the unloved

in a city filled with strangers
its female population
uttering many thousand variations
on “No”.

Recollecting times
women have given me a challenging look
and feeling uncertain whether it meant
“Don’t you dare speak to me!”
“Speak to me: I dare you!”

Then breaking eye-contact
over fear of offence.


Even beauty
can intimidate.


when well enough for travel by bus
occasionally seated next to women
like a hungry man ignoring food
faking nonchalance
avoiding her gaze
or potential discomfort
should any trace of desire
leak from this empty chamber
called a heart.


Suffering an invisible disability
enables my passing as “normal”
although it shows no reason
to be lacking status

That happens once maleness
(valued through doing
rather than being)
becomes too sick for achievement
hence seen as socially useless.


Just fantasies persist
around she who might love me
as I would love her

Which never occurs.


How difficult
transcending pain
where it clings to us
like slime.


Now I visualise myself
sitting outside
on the doorstep of life
hoping someone turns up with a key

Passing couples laugh
but nobody wants me
in their world

So I rest there
across despair

while the portal








(art/blogging/depression/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)