The Distaste

The darkness fills me with a hunger. I feel vivacious, tender, rotten, corporeal. All of this past week has drained me.



He walked out like he said he would.



I said that I would be there, I made explicit instructions. He had waited. And when are eyes met sorrow drained from his. ‘I was hoping for much more.’ Of what, I scorned. His tenderness is a treachery, his emotions blackmail. This is nothing, I demand it of you. His body shook and bended to the ground. All I could see was his flesh contorted and prostrate. I could almost taste the air around him with his insipid nature. I desired him. More so than at any other time I felt a emptiness, noxious, painful, hateful. I had no words for this.



Many of those shadows have ebbed and swallowed my thoughts of late. Rather than fearful of my growing consumption he lay removed, separating him self. His touch was turned. He excused his lack of presence with vague platitudes, insincere as they were. I felt mocked and in return pressed his response teetering to his intolerance. Was it then contempt?



He makes me suffer and now I suffer because of this.  

Tempest

I was waiting by the shore. I got up and past by the railway arch along the road side. I picked up a book. It was a blue, small but thick tome. I was surprised to find no text but instead a collection of pictograms. ‘Come on’. I turned to the shore again. I raised my feet in a half stretch. I smiled at the sun, almost grinning. The arch had disappeared revealing the long baroque columns and effigies of men shadowed among them. Their silhouettes poured across the square creating an optical illusion which appeared to oblique the view of the hill tops above. Yet at once the shadows that formed appeared to recess, creating a point of concentrated darkness in which the colours and light of the surrounding day seem to coalesce and saturate. I observed that I seemed to be at a point between two visions. Two traversing localities of space and time placed upon a shared horizon, threaded into the same moment. I turned again. ‘I’ve got my eye on you’.



The evening had come when all the concrete had cut the earth, and the hills where no longer hills but blocks of shadows, sharp and flat, devoid and natureless. A red cloud billowed above the monoliths and contoured its apex over the lines of bitumen that rolled and traversed across the landscape like neurotic marks of a pubescent child.



The sweat had bled over my eyes. I had turn many times seeing the ships tossed like twigs onto the land by the blow of the ocean. My breath pulsed and stammered as my feet broke and my legs wrenched my body forward from the cast of the shadow. The smell of rubber, the hot air on my back, the sickness in my belly felt strangely as comfort, like I could feel him all over.



And I could hear him mumbling, teasing me, his eyes cutting my back. ‘You know where you are’. To turn again was to face nothing. I felt captive, pinioned, wanted.



It was first time I felt him and as confused and delirious as I was the energy inside me ebbed; I was sick with compulsion. I lay delirious for days, my family thinking that I had caught malaria. When I awoke still half in a day dream I walked out naked into the river ready to drown myself. My father saved me and I turned away from him and openly wept. ‘I wanted it, why did you stop me!'.

Cold as he was he spited out.

‘You!’

Singularity

On a hill I looked. Dusk was born and the earth turned a shade of pink as the sun gathered beyond the horizon



On that day I woke up from a dream. It’s hard to say what came before that I can’t really remember what I was doing. He pressed his face on mine, His hot pasty fur all over my skin. I opened my eyes and lay them on his. He saw but didn’t really look.



I felt like the earth had shattered, my own trajectory burnt up. The sky sheltered and blackness fell. Hearing his breath seep between the stars my own vision deteriorating as all forms melted past, compressed into this hearth, cask of a body, he began to mumble. I don’t listen; I don’t allow his thoughts to penetrate. His opinions are like the surface of so many things, bleached out and facile, the semblance of clarity. I’m in love with him. I care not if he is with me. I take what I want, I consume, he consumes. And all these apparitions dart like whispers of some hidden compulsion. All those dreams, betrayed setting on a blood red sky to awake to nothing.

The Ferment Inside

The ferment inside
boils and dries
leaving a residue
Which lips touch



Whether a gesture like this corresponds to a thought or activation is a choice by which I let the reader to decide. For anything these words are for. Speech it seems to me is the work of rhetoric and language a political combat, an aggression of imposed civility; imperial and licentious. Are not my frustrations and desires the conflation of this symbolic contortion? Is the political an adjective of the force and the perversion of language? Words open up to leave scars of scrutiny their control is in their innocuous tendency to convey the world as a neurosis like the gibbering convulsions of a mad man. The supposition is that the most alternative politics becomes a position of radical doubt. Madness indeed! I feel all words are stagnant, an imposition, their certainty a fate driven brokering.

I look at those iridescent opals turned up to the sun his face turned away his thoughts, concerned, brow beaten. Arched shadows from the lowlight, blue, cold, carve his skin. And he then turns his face half blue, half orange becoming bloated, ugly even. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.
‘Why so serious?’
He turned away again, thinking. ‘I never see you.’ You’ll never let me down, again.
‘No.’
Drop your head, my boy. Look coy. Look as you are. I forgive everything even your words. I have no time for the troubles of others except in due recognition of my own subterfuge. How does this change anything? Does it do so in a constant epiphany of rhetorical (rhetorical?) gestures, aspirations, desires? How, indeed, do I desire in my own selfish way? My consumption, our mutual conglomeration to which this transformation apprehends a defined collective way is a passing melancholy of unattainable moments.

If that is my rhetoric does that mean when I write I am mourning already?

Longer days

A moment of clarity! A position which I found myself lucid! I feel connected to this moment as if I was part of him inside me, inside him.

However this clarity doesn’t suggest a clearer apprehension of the world but it seems instead an acknowledgement of its enveloping complexity. Like so many of my dreams I feel like water in water, matter and molecules, sleep walking past knowing and unknowing.

My Accusations

Not everything here is meant, as it is, more a precipice of words insurmountable. I get tired these days. I watch my boy. And to me he is everything that I still don’t quite get. Maybe I wish to reach back, and those dreams are so real and vivid. I saw this post set upon a grey tempestuous and boiled sky. That image seems to suggest something to me like a line of communication, a sentence not quite formed. As if the connection between my mind, my mouth, lips and tongue and the written word are the abstractions which multiply into a timorous din of noises, a cacophony of images smashed into conjunction. My language is the conversation of my dreams. Maybe my soul lies between me and them, as he never seems to answer. And why do I write? To etch some line of truth that I neither quite believe nor think possible. But this boy is here with me.

The Yearning Boy

As a boy I dreamt of being a space man. I would travel the threshold of the universe, its infinite potential, along the carpeted floor and brightly painted cupboards of my bedroom.



I managed to capture some inner topography of unseen landscapes, windswept worlds and deserted cities in the folds of the duvet, the pots of paint, the stacked up bookshelf, the corrugated radiator. All signs of another existence wiped away, unknown to me. All these objects where bodies inert with a living essence of a strangely comforting type in that they contained me and nurtured me. But in their cold resilience lay a fear of their indifference that surrounded my own existence. Is something empty because it is to be filled? Or the end of something has occurred or about to be, as if its passage is to be soon extinguished. In my childhood thought existence reached no further than those bedroom walls and the thought of their death was the death of me. And what if I were to die? The bedroom was like a time machine reaching into the future-landscapes of my imagination.



This is fitting, that death is an internal expression, something we all face alone, and our beds the invocative arena of our dreams and desires. But to return to that sense of space, of worlds beyond the materiality and utility of such prosaic objects, indistinguishable and untraceable at least for a boy, except in the leaps of his imagination, space becomes a thing desired but never contained something that death seems to escape; a possibility of transcendence. This instilled in me a belief that freedom was an expression gained outside oneself, in thought alone. Bodies were a cumbersome vestibule, a weight tied to the natural cycle of birth and decay and only the soul reached beyond the stratosphere into the immortality of the heavens. Death was to be feared in so far as my soul would not be able to scream, rip apart and blow asunder it’s own material lifeblood. I didn’t necessarily understand my own source or abject concern to penetrate or transfigure, even if it were in libidinal gestation, was in fact the same materiality I so longed to escape.