Winter walk

June 4, 2020

I am misplaced,
wake me from this winter.
I do not belong here among
buried roses and bare branches
of frozen dreams…a solitary
walk of extraordinary length
into an atmosphere of loneliness.
I belong to no one now, but my
own chilled thoughts of yesterday,
slipping in and out of me as easily
as the snow falls from the clouds…
the beauty of each flake, yet a man
can die unprotected in this world.
The mist will part as I pass,
and leave just enough room for
you to also pass, just a shadow’s
length behind me, yet there is
no more than silence here in this
wilderness of your absence…
and each day the walk becomes longer,
colder, and my breath curls and rises
to be with you, for just a moment of
respite from the inside of my heart.

Forest Walker

screams of old victims

April 28, 2020

Dream last night. I was to attend an orgy with Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade. Apparently, we are close friends. He smelled of sandalwood and pain. Outside, the night was fluid with moonlight, silver, pearl, and the ghosting screams of old victims. He told me love, true love is as rare as the tears of Sirens. He also told me that we are all simply pain wrapped in flesh, and nothing more.

Love Again

April 24, 2020

Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he’s taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even … but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.

Philip Larkin

Poetry and pain

April 15, 2020

We spent last weekend, the three of us, turning pain into poetry.

excruciatingly painful

April 15, 2020

No words can describe how excruciatingly painful it is to catch your foreskin in the zipper of your trousers.

confronting pain

March 29, 2020

Well, I myself have always found that if I examine something, it’s less scary. You know, I grew up in the West, and we always had this theory that if you saw – if you kept the snake in your eye line, the snake wasn’t going to bite you. And that’s kind of the way I feel about confronting pain. I want to know where it is.

Joan Didion
Radio interview with Terry Gross, 2nd November 2011

The pain was quite extraordinary. And yet also weirdly welcome and restorative, bringing him news of his aliveness and his caughtness in a story larger than himself.

Jonathan Franzen
Freedom

love always hurts

January 19, 2020

You said, “There’s still time – time to change your mind.”

Remember…?

Your voice was little more than a husky whisper beside my ear. But going back wasn’t an option for me then. What was to happen was fated…inevitable. Like the sunrise or sunset.

I said, “I love you.”

And you said, “Move forward…just a little more…little more. There. I’m going to hurt you now…Hurt you a lot, because I love you. And love always hurts.”

The pain that followed my slow movement against your long body was unlike anything I’d experienced before. Hell fire would touch me less.

Agony.

And, yes, ecstasy too…

You said, “You can cry out if you wish. It’s alright. No one can hear.”

And then that exquisite, excruciating torment eased, slightly. I couldn’t breathe; couldn’t draw breath; but then I could and took short, shallow gulps of air. I realised my mouth was filled with blood where I’d bitten the right side of my cheek and my tongue.

You bent forward to look into my face and smiled. You saw the blood on my lips. Your tongue flicked over my mouth, lasciviously.

“First blood,” you whispered. “Relax for now. It’s going to be a long, long night for you…”

P

sacrificial lamb

November 9, 2019

Once every month he visited the woman who wore a carapace of black rubber and a face-mask. She had a room in her house that she’d transformed years ago into a torture chamber. It was in there she did what she did to him, the things so desperately required to replenish his emptiness. Tied to a solid wooden cross, a sacrificial lamb, his head full of silence broken by the sound of her spikey high heels on the wooden floorboards as she circled him, dragging her shadow behind her like a vast, unappreciated weight. He was all appetite. Soon he’d be filled to overflowing with pain. She laughed and he glimpsed Armageddon in her eyes – So his ordeal began.

Scars

November 3, 2019

We don’t age with years, we age with scars. Scars that reminds us of the things we’ve conquered with fear, with love, and with pain. Scars that reminds us that nothing in this world comes easy, but ultimately everything heals through time.

Juansen Dizon
Aging