Something Wicked This Way Comes

Welcome to my Blogg! This being my first amateur attempt at Blogging you’ll have to excuse the somewhat random nature of the material I have thus far posted. As the weeks and months pass by I hope to craft this little slice of cyber space into something more coherent, with interesting links, quotes, as well as plenty more bad poetry. Please feel free to leave a comment and give an opinion about what you see by clicking on the 'comments' box at the bottom of the screen.

'Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.' --G. K.Chesterton

Foolish Turns (A poem for the melancholic, or solitary drinker...)

We are alone because we say we are alone,
Whilst not a sound of life makes its mark
Upon the hollow caverns of the soul,
Where the shapes of nameless, faceless words
Pass before the image of our mind.

Human shadows cast their disturbing complexity
Into the doubting wound of our infant understanding,
Only to Sink willingly into a dull familiarity
Of a childhood rhyme made bitter
By the passing of that which remains
less than sympathetic to our needs.

Some say that such renderings ask not for appreciation,
But for the acknowledgment of the existence of words
Which play in the reflection of baseness mind,
Where all stand shouldered
Doomed to scratch their odes to injured love
In the unforgiving dust of time.
(P.W.)

'We are never so helplessly unhappy as when we lose love.' --Sigmund Freud

Awakening (A poem of love's beginning...)

O my love, with your eyes of wisdom,
Speak softly onto me and tell of those
Lives of sad silence, and how they become
The familiar sound of love’s own sorrows.
When you have witnessed the birth of new love,
Marked by passion in the beating of a heart,
Take this as the measure of what is to be done
And see the sadness of this realm pale and depart.
For with new lease comes the dawn of new light,
Whilst the darkest hours relinquish their hold
Upon the growth of true love’s true might,
Breathing life into those tired songs of old.
Surrender to love and gentle thoughts of two
For she doth choose love and love chooses you!
(P.W.)

Wayward (The pensive wanderer)

Is it strange,
To long to be lost be and free,
A stranger both in land and language,
Born to a tangled unfamiliarity that grants anonimity,
A welcome peace in the midst of life?
And what is it to stand glad and beaten at the end of the road,
Satisfied that with each small step you have reclaimed
Some rememberance of soul,
Or that which has grown fat in the knowledge of uncertainty
and a vastness of future.
(P.W.)

On Looking Back (Experimentalism In Existentialism)

You are invited to close both eyes, and listen,
With a sinking sense of self, to the sound of your own extinction.
For this is the means by which we interpret the absurdity of dreams,
And the fallacy of our own existence.

One foot falls heavily upon the autumnal salad,
But oh how warm her bed will be, heavy with a human scent of forgotten
Cotton, clinging to the knots we tie in sleep;
Cold, cold is the air that bites the bindings of our vanity.
Dare you sleep alone tonight?
Stand with me beneath the aged tree and look towards the dying of the light,
At the majesty of youth’s dream remembered…that distant place of fancy
Where you dwelt as a child, and clung to the immortality of that realm.

-Remember softly -
-fond memory-

As you press a soft mouth into a tender shoulder, cooled by the passing of the evening air, and
Dream of that foreign place, and fear not to taste deeply of the forbidden flesh.
Back against breast,
A wayward arm lies dead within a bed;
(Touch me in those cold places, my dear)
And what is more, I can trace my enthusiasm to the declaration of dreams,
Maintained by a steep sleep of proud mountain sides,
For Nature doth govern the child within;
As thy immortality now stands caged,
With an impression of morbidity, marked by
The sound of leaf falling upon leaf; process upon process.

All the leaves of that one old tree have turned a pale red.
Nature’s retreat; nature’s blush of maiden shame - Death stalks between the dead and the
Dying trees, feeding greedily from the fat that girdles the land.

(Oh ye gods of castration, riddled with fear of awkward penetration! What is thy condition?)

The lipless grin doth beckon me to stand alone beneath the oldest tree.
With a gentle touch one can feel the PULSE of life gently beating decay away, or so they say,
(Can’t you smell the rain?)

But what does it matter, I am wrong ninety-six-percent of the time.

And so speaks you, interval child, of so certain sentence,
Raising her dreams, which seem, in a sexual relation,
So very incomplete.
She speaks, this cruel child, of the origins of the country
Which seem lost to me,
For many a man hath seen himself in dreams
His mother’s mate, but he who gives no heed
To suchlike matters is of a better breed than I.
O Oedipus, so hard of hearing in thy dull eye, cries
Too shrewd is the shrew that bites!
Goodnight.
(His mother laughed at this.)

And so to the fly that squats and breads disease.
That single maggot turning and turning and turning in the mind of the dead lands
Breeding a momentary flicker of creativity and and and…nothing.
Just think, beneath the cemetery soils the worms turn…a seething, elastic mass of filth abides, but all made good by God’s good design.
(P.W.)