Waste away to nothing in a dark dusty tomb. Looking for the traces of what used to be a room. Wipe away the blood from a tormented brow…Solve the wicked problem…never asking, how? Rock the sinking vessel until it rest on the bottom. Count the waves of water… Don’t remember? Forgot them. Taste the stench of living on thin dimes and a dream. Opening an ear to a painful, silent, scream.
Oh, life is BAD! The worse I’ve ever had.
Ache and writhe in agony like a vise on aging bones. Tar and acid drip from an ice cram cone. Holding onto a wind that chases the hell. Falling in the darkness of an inner descending well.
Caress transparent night as a demon with a sword. Speak with an eloquence… never saying a word. Look into the clarity then erase it with the muck
Lying in a pool of consciousness. No such thing as luck!
To being a beginner, to inventing the end. To living with a stranger… never a friend. Saddle slobbering beast… trouble is abound! Ride the devil’s bronco never hit the ground.
I believe we are all asses (I first and foremost) when we publish our poems. Yet the doing so eases our souls – for some inscrutable reason; and if we can afford the consolation, and expect nothing from the public in return for our gifts, I suppose there is no reason to be urged against it.
John Addington Symonds
His memoirs are that of freedom and strength. And, all that can be achieved through self-discovery. When he embraced his homosexuality…his health became a positive. When plagued with doubt…Mr. Symonds succumbed to many ailments related to stress and personal oppression.
It is unfortunate that John Symonds passed at a very young age…complications related to not being true to self.
Cold blows the winter wind: ‘t is Love,
Whose sweet eyes swim with honeyed tears,
That bears me to thy doors, my love,
Tossed by the storm of hopes and fears.
Cold blows the blast of aching Love; But be thou for my wandering sail, Adrift upon these waves of love, Safe harbor from the whistling gale!