I haven’t performed my work for some time but this one was worth the effort I think.
Thank you to my good friend Predencia, an amazing performer herself, for the performance coaching, invaluable.
I haven’t performed my work for some time but this one was worth the effort I think.
Thank you to my good friend Predencia, an amazing performer herself, for the performance coaching, invaluable.
This is a piece I have written, originally for the christian festival of Good Friday.
I hope you enjoy the piece and the recording, even if it is not of your faith.
Rough hewn, now old and battered wood lies blood soaked and splintered,
punctured with holes and stained rotting sinew all foul stinking and sintered.
Thrown to the ground after being dragged stuttering up the final hill…
now a scourged arm is stretched, full length, a soldier’s grip holds it still.
The crowd simmers for the hammer that’s lifted for only the first of the cruel blows,
their cries ring out in cold, misplaced, blood lusted thirst, while the carrion crows…
watch square forged nails, their mangled tips glint, being once more sharpened,
but when that first blow is struck, the mood changes, now more real, more hard, more darkened.
No cry from the victim of this harsh, homicidal, capital, attack,
but his hand clenches, eyes roll and an arch rises along his back.
The nail drives through his fine skin, into bone right and down to the wood,
what worse fate can human lay on human, who honesty ever could…
imagine worse, but then the second arm is pinned and last, the dirt dusted feet….
crossed to receive pain while soldiers ranks sound a tattoo on their shields, a steady, steady beat.
Then it stops….. but still no victim’s word as the cross is hoisted up on high,
the only sound now from a mother, but only then a small and muffled cry…
for her son who had not been given long in this savage, unremitting world,
she could only watch as the pain showed now, through his fingers as they curled.
As if it wasn’t enough to contend with, during this vile humiliation,
one warder, feeling guilty, takes a small sponge soaked in a libation,
obnoxious and crude, the guilt’s compounded as he offers it up with a snigger,
spiced unkindly with molding sourness, in the form of rancid, acrid vinegar.
With the victim’s weight overcoming what little strength he might have left,
comes the first cry, not pain but pleading, it would leave him hanging, bereft,
‘Why forsake me my father’, comes the cold, heart wrenching exhortation,
‘Forgiveness for all men, please’, a last wish for our lives, his final act before total decimation.
Thunder cracks, his crowned head falls, thorn pricked bleeding now stopped,
lightening spears from the heavens and to the ground, the fearful onlookers dropped.
Dressed in her blue, a mother pleads for the shattered body of her boy,
not even with this travesty heaped upon her, could her love for him destroy.
The crowd wails loud, rent their cloths, shed cold tears but while accusations fly,
from the rank steps a lone soldier who claims, from this shameful act, he’s now their converted ally.
With the body borne away, laying empty, that simple, blooded, anonymous wooden cross…
just like our wider world, does not appreciate the consequence of its part in humanities cruel loss?
© David Rollason 2017
This poem woke me up one morning and needed to be written down. It is just part a step forward in personal growth that I have been studying. It features what seems to be my spirit animal, can you work out which that is?
Moon bright eyes that
hold the wisdom of the ages
from the bottomless depth
of countless generations
passed on by means unseen
to watch and protect and heal
those that pass through its scope
of super visionary care
Sitting patiently through the twilight hours with
20-20, 360°, 1000 generation, universal understanding,
the least ripple or disturbance prompts
the silent swoop of evolutionary wings
that bring knife like talons to
pluck out with surgical precision
the scurrying destructive verminous pains
of some disordered life, one piece at a time
Disorder is not taken completely,
a reminder is left parcelled up in a pellet
just the bare bones of the problem
as a warning to think on for the future,
so breath and dream higher
absorb the constellation of those Moon bright eyes
that hold the wisdom of the ages
this is, the spirit of O
© David Rollason
“A literary work which exhibits poetic quality using emotional effect and heightened imagery but is written in prose instead of verse.”
Life. Long idyllic days, large loving family whos many generations share the work of a busy home, vibrant gardens and fresh farm fields. Here it’s all home cooking, home making, endless baking of all that’s whole-sum which gives everything a tender toddler needs. But crushed amid the countless comings and goings, with people drifting in and out, everywhere and inside out, amidst it all my constitution builds but introverted isolation blights and I resolve to be marginally unstable, and physically, rather stout.
Being the last of three, cute enough to clamber up on almost any knee, I soon get bored and with little kerfuffle, no one sees when I start to shuffle, on my every broadening bottom across green tiled floor, from hiding under the colossal central table towards the beckoning, always open, wide back door.
Here cats and dogs and even worms are my constant friends and when, eventually, walking out further, caged birds chatter and flutter, until some are eaten by vivid rodents. All this wonder offers up life’s variety in broad stroked pictures. But, confronted with life’s hard knocks, contrasting with my mother’s soft enfoldments, even at this early age I’m left to decide, in life, the relevant do’s and don’ts, the cans and cant’s, where the heaven falls on the hard.
Growth spurts push me to be more able and I help at the now reachable kitchen table and on around the many roomed house, carrying coal for the fires, ironing flat cloths of red check kerchief, and stirring boiled greens. Strength turns to turning spits of soil in wild gardens which is a natural gateway to ventures much further afield.
Out here, exploring the idyllic fields, I find huge semi-tame beasts only interested in their grazing, and as the chattering chaos indoors gets less appealing, I trek to the far and away, every step offering new worlds, complex singularities, each more amazing, each so much more wild and fantastic. Sometimes I’m scared so stiff, I allow it’s wonder to re-mould me, still being made from podgy, primordial, pot bellied plastic.
In this new world, such a cruel world, my tinted inner nature develops despite all the nurture, and I feel my alternate faces turn, perhaps to those things a little too bold, too beastly, I feel rather harshly, I’m getting quite bombastic.
Then suddenly, all mysterious, school days are on me, one saving grace it seems, a big brother’s singular job to look out, just, if he must, for the shy little ‘b’. But with the safe sight of home gone, he quickly, cruelly, lets go of my tiny trembling hand, and walks on at a pace that leaves me blind, I shuffle on cold reluctant feet, scanning all around, all alone, uncertain of just where I should go. Bravely I run on towards his back but towards what? Hopefully there would be others there that might somehow happen to know.
Then I see the other kids, many about my age, running riotously around, they seem to know each other, not that I can really tell but my doubt delights to confuse matters and I find myself really, not all that keen. Then recognition intervenes and there, two I can smile at, but, being oh so painfully shy, I still only manage a limp ‘Hi Ian’ then ‘Hi Jimmy’ as they just pass me, right on by. So I try ‘Hi Helen’ but it’s the same and I’m left fully daunted. Cautiously, I don’t go for ‘Hi Peter’, the one I really favoured, he I could play with, talk to, but it’s sadly all too clear, even in this one impossibly perfect pal, I’m still sociably, unfeatured.
So, a bell rings and I follow head down into classrooms all strange, on seats that give cold comfort, I diligently do just as we’re told, is this really what school’s like, till we all grow up and all too soon, get so very old? But then with papers and pencils and writing and sums, it all somehow adds up to something that quite possibly, probably, might just be fun. So, perhaps it’s not all bad and I decide to give it a go, just for today, only on trial, I just go with the flow.
Soon then it’s playtime, there’s cold milk and with growing hope I manage to corner that pal Peter, ‘Hello, would you like to share this, it’s just my milk?’ but he just throws a hard spoken ‘No’, thankful my clean, perfectly ironed, red checked hanky is at hand and in here, my disappointment I blow.
Despite such hardships, this little school turns out not all that bad. Days rolling into weeks which soon fast forwarding to unimaginable years, what was all that fuss about, those cold concerns amid fumbled confusions, bound up in my ridiculous child-like fears. But I have yet to recognise that, in whatever educational age, I’m never going to break into school society where, despite such teasing glimpses, I remain at the chagrin rim of social circles and can only lust after such impossible friendships. Perhaps it’s only the curlicues of my mind that curb the sweet views of compatibility, will life allow me the move to lift the impenetrable veil of inclusion, although deeply hidden, I already know, there’s no pleasant or practical resolution.
Away from the contortions of the classroom, having contrived to play out with said pal Peter, it’s oddity sticks in my head and words are stuck in my throat, all the things I wanted to say, like just how much of myself I would give for one roll in his, not so metaphorical, hay.
Silenced by such ignorance, we climb on bales and I stare at long legs locked on sinewy ropes, he calls for chase, I crave the briefest touch from his svelte curvaceous arms which stretch far from a firm, fabulous body. He flies in the face of fear, I simply cry inside, please, what can possibly be the harm, but yet again I hear it only in my head and yet again I know, I have neither the power, nor the charm.
With a flick of his fine long neck, golden silk sways, loops and settles, maybe it just needs a little help from my wanton fingers to be perfect? Could I reach out? I feel I’m not ready, indeed not all that sure that such a touch would be acceptable, even possible, although it’s plainly inscribed on the mystical list, where things you can physically do with other boys is writ, but then, with my lack lustre luck, here, in the now, he is surely bound to resist.
All too soon it’s home time, opportunity for games are over, but cruelly, these imaginary passions run on wildly inside my head where the only outcome of any certainty, is the fumbled miscarriage of physical hope, as I retire to the cold and soon dream-wet, ugliness, of my loveless empty bed.
To cope with constant disappointment, I decide it best to be prim, to be plain, outwardly cute, mommy’s good little boy, only it seems that nobody’s taking note. He, pal Peter who, having neither clear inclination nor clouded clue of what he means to me, what he does to me, indeed, that we’re so different in ways that I can’t speak of, or be part of, the widening wastelands of unrequited feelings consume all tangible life, as I fall, headlong into a hollow emotional darkness and he heads off to his boarding school.
Needing a believable replacement, I indulge myself in the most improbable concepts, they at least allow a degree of contact sport ably assisted by She, mother nature, who brings them fluidly and sweetly to my bedroom or the bathroom or far off landscapes where there’s just too many twisted, contrary, confusing things to see clean life clearly and the folly of my wayward musing sets a unknown precedent for future pleasure.
That egregious Mother also delivers her bundles of hormonal gore, feeding such sprouting and swelling and fuzz gilded things, I know not what could they be called. Older boys I hear laughing about same, what are they calling them, their balls? I hear a snigger about wanking and feeling up girls of whom some it is rumoured, are up for a quick fumble or even an erroneously named blow-job, so it’s claimed, when safely denuded behind a bike rack, or the big woody oak or the putative privacy of the pool house, well, that’s according to Thompson who claims that he’s done it, he’s had it, so mad, wild, fantastic I’m so jealous, that’s what I want, no, not with her, no, I want it hard and with Him.
An Adonis like incarnation, with skin so perfect, cropped hair sharp and simply stunning. In my head thoughts fall over themselves fuelled by my viral imagination, I’m constantly looking for ways to gain full sight of his immaculate perfection, and almost collapse as he’s finally revealed in the showers, naked, we and shimmering, fabulously firm from the heat of the gym where he had just taunted me in only the shortest of sweat clung shorts. Really, nearly, clearly, what could possibly be the harm to have all these feelings, that thankfully nobody can see and I pray others won’t wrongfully expose but decide for my own safety, it’s best to keep all such things internalised, saved up for some rarefied self-abuse with my still small but gaunt stiffness, raised easily to hand by my bounty of feelings.
Always alone, I rub up and down, rose tinted images flash to my mind’s eye and the visualisation of said Adonis looms large and firm. Here I safely touch the dream that is his perfectly gel pricked hair but always too quickly I’m trapped beneath the final explosion with which, even my wayward nature struggles to cope. It’s a force that’s far above anything that mere sexuality should be allowed to feel, and sadly, it’s a force soon spent, and a fast cooling afterglow hardly feeds my particular, if peculiar, vision of an impossible physical love. I’m left chilled in my wet and wayward musing. A shadow falls.
What is the point of my love if I can’t feel this forbidden love, simply, honestly, openly? Will there ever be a time to be fulfilled, free in this wide, wild, world, without the doors of my personal closet firmly closed against humanity. Life has its questions to ask before living can commence but beneath them, cowering, the silence remains black. This then becomes the norm for both school and social circles, and I take it on the chin and face the fact that there may never be other places I can go, to get the type of comfort I so categorically need.
But the memory of earlier delinquent goals never really leaves and I keep my eyes low to take the occasional sneaky peek, at some honey blonde beauty, dressed so sharp with hair trimmed slick and sleek. Only sometimes I’m not so careful and less guarded glances start to get me noticed. Despite trying to play things down, act mockingly meek, they still take my money meant for dinner and at the back of the bus, throw more than the obligatory punch, there, oiled by stinging words spat into my face, made more of a target with bent teeth in an ugly brace. Invisibly I cringe and cry but still go without tasting yet another longed for lunch.
Desperation finally tramples me down, and with rather less covert attentions I turn to face the rude and the rough, raucous anti-angels I know would be the very worst of friends. In this retrograde action, silently calling their bluff, drawn by those base and elemental needs I can’t hide from my hearts desire, knowing the end result will be more beatings to bruise any loving feelings. I close my eyes tight and feel the cold steel in the boot that meets with my wanting arse, and arms absorb poundings that don’t readily show, unlike the raw ripped edges of a once white shirt or another expensive blazer and with oh so many ties cut off a the knot, I’m eventually left alone, but still cold.
Predictably, it’s only my soul that ends up penetrated with the stinking bile of their loveless lust and rancid hurt. The perpetrators just laugh, bullish, it’s only a bit of bullying, I’m not the first, obviously not the last, but what can I do, I can’t suck up or face down, I just stand and stare, with my pink tinged frown.
In the fallout of parental intervention, things are not all that different, albeit illogical, another bruise won’t get me fulfilled, that twisted brutal touch, no, please don’t knock it, somehow it’s just what hopes were made for, a fleeing moment of pain stabbed pleasure with another’s hot hand in my pocket, their groping digits seeking coinage, stolen sweets, or perhaps things put by my devious design, so I can get my dick felt, my balls squeezed, oh what kind of pain could be more intense and yet so deliciously divine. When they’ve long gone into class, I cry from their dexterous rape, but draw breath, and once more with watered eyes blinking, brush off any outward damage, knot yet another spare tie, and gently massage whatever is left bruised, blue or shrinking.
In skin that still smarts only on the outside, I remain only vaguely violated on the inside, yet my mind is no more clear, as once again, nothing positive or phallic has been achieved nor rationalised, but then, why should anything in my world of intimate violence ever be satisfied.
What’s left is kept inside my head, blind untested fantasies, bordering on bearish barbarity, unlocked only to free the forces of nature before limping flaccidly home to roost where I revert to what, for me, has become rudely normal. Cradling my genitals gently, closing hardening eyes, once more, again, I, hide.
Then suddenly I’m all grown up, but still crudely sewn up in things that refuse to become clear, where, despite knowing that boys get hard and glowing to make messy with girls, I see, for me, below the belt anyway, it’s been never been so and I’m no nearer the real deal, for me it’s a queer deal and what’s hidden deep in my core, although no less heartfelt, seems it’s never to be laid bare.
But there must be others like me, not so cruel, not so hateful, but it’s so hard, how do I find them, talk to them, maybe be physical with them, one thing’s stark, I’m never going to get there, not in my own back yard. But in the darkness of a wasted college year, a glimmer of hope shows as a faceless encounter assaults with hot handed advances in the photography darkroom, unseen but no less keen, blinded by a benefit only dreamed of in far off worlds, now, once forced upon my person, this oral exorcism takes me to heights of wonder where beauty bursts burning from a pent-up fortitude before disappearing far far far too quickly. Fearing it never to be repeated, I force the experience from fading into the vast sea of normality and even now I can blush at its recall but bloom in its heat.
So how about now? Will it ever be the case that, in a world where I’m sure be judged, not for my kindness or my shyly observed if outrageous contradiction, all I want to be is at one with other like-minded beasts and tell the rest to go stuff themselves with their made up, infectious, antiquated consternation, only each time, at moments of weakness, all those old contradictions call me loud, and I quietly capitulate to my disparate feelings of guilt.
Yes, I know I’m rather different, strangely special, fundamentally an outstanding example of the social freak. But needing to be included, bowing to idealistic social pressures, I eventually play the game with the girl, force feed my gizzard with a more bland, grainy persona, outwardly, oh so very meek while I drown in meaningless face-painted feelings, and wedding bells ring out and around a misplaced love that still harbours my reality, fortunately undetected.
Drag me away from all this I dream and pray, what for me now as I find myself terrifyingly rejected?
Hidden inside this new dull married guise, I smoothly delude the sweet someone that she and I will be perfect in each others love. Here I breath with her and feel for her, make an alternate form of love to her loosely wrapped in a cold heartless and ultimately anonymous code, where, when she touches me, tries to hold me privately, I shudder, force back fatal fears that set me up to eviscerate my meat and then implode.
In a relatively if predictably sort time, my needs look for other ways to sate their repressed hormonal madness, all those bent, vicarious venal needs which, of course, I easily find. Falling for a simple smile, maybe just a knowing nod, although nothing that Joe Public naturally notices or heeds, with patience I soon find it all. Having paid their rent, I can easily take time with wayward but wispy and willing boys down dark shady streets or in stinking filthy corners, avoiding any unsolicited discovery or alarm. But here, my true needs and excesses are finally blown, and using another’s firm handed playfulness, I feel only mildly concerned for the outcomes as I fall for the smoothness of practiced charm; what could possibly be the problem, who was I ever going to harm?
The fall comes of course but, not being completely without feeling I try to mould answers for the ones I leave behind so soon, graphically hurting. Yet I continue to play away and payout more and still more to leer at hard hot man and fool with soft cool boys just to prove myself again but yet again, remaining mostly unsatisfied, I am that fully-blown, carnivorous, queer that I always feared I would be.
In this twilit haze, life fades with the inevitable instability of untruths, as sure as the sun sets on every reluctant marriage day and that blinkered bubble is unceremoniously burst by the stabbing pains of my non-conformity. All’s gone in one final hot headed confrontation. Words are sharpened, designed to stab deep with a truth that’s not strictly true, but twisted to maximise my pain, but I’m scared when things look to get physical, and I retreat.
My barbed backlash is so alien, as I hear the words slap across her bleached face, it’s a view that now looks quizzical, but sadly small and simply, lost. It’s a dark and horrible result. I watch bewildered from afar as so many marital gains shatter on the floor and I realise now that in this mess, only everyone loses. Seeing no path for redemption I turn tail and bolt.
Cold, like a mystical ghost, I take one last longing look at my helpless progeny, carelessly sleeping, thankfully sound. My tears flood in stinging waves, drowning out glimmers of sensitivities now fully lost.
Tearing myself from their bubble of innocence, I disappear in a fog of grieving and guilt that leaves me cold like a stone, I know I’ve gone too far, gone somewhere deep underground.
Thoughts of darker worlds flood my minds abyss as I drive, crazed by my unintelligible actions. Although my head hangs low, my nerves are swept high by a pain that forms into a howl of such lamentation, it risks my place on the rolling black road but I think, no matter, death might feed me answers and, as nothing else seems capable of sating this emotional hunger and humiliation, hell might be a blast.
Unable to defend the defenceless, futile justifications leave me lifeless, but alive. Then, on the approach the house of one of those lurid traders in their sex, not knowing what I need, the boy gratefully sees me as this sad debilitated foundling. I let him take me, and warm me, and wrap me in almost every comfort, accompanied as ever by the usual rates of financial inducement. Even here though, behind the mask of youth’s perfection, in this star studded, meat-eating world, I feel the pains of spiritual hunger in the knowledge that its sad, pseudo satisfaction is devoid of anything remotely sentimental. Blinded by his boundless physical beauty, I sink further into the exotic excess which invalidates anything meaningful, but, as so many times before, he feeds me semen till I’m sore, fully satisfied, he is monumental, yet still I cry.
The light of these salty days brings forth only duplicitous faces which blind my senses as they swarm over me, yet I find myself friendless if I was only question it. Why is there still so much lacking? All the things that I craved are right here in both hands, yet real life remains hidden under my personal, ashes and sacking.
Of course the glitter and glamour of this wanton world ultimately starts to fade, only my rose tinted memory is still minded to remind me how this life is so dammed and destructive. By now any penile play is hard to maintain, certainly not long enough for the pleasure once so longed for. No more the joy of hard penetrating hope, thrusting its palpable delectation, comfort which was once guaranteed, pleasures once intensely intimate and assured, slip sadly to just sleeping, in the more literal accord. The money is the key it seems, once unconsidered is now in greater need for responsibilities I can no longer ignore.
I force myself to infrequent trips to a once homely space, filled now with only the emotional pleading of wide-eyed little faces, all too soon left standing bemused and confused at their dull green front door. The backwash of this reality sweeps each rented engagement so far away they are like cartoons scrawled on a Rembrandt, ridiculous and obscure.
When the glitter boys are finally gone, I’m left in my sour solitude where thoughts once more race wild and fight their way through my man-made defences that increasingly fail to secure my sanity, and I watch, helpless, as self-preservation fail and senses fall and unsanitary.
Alone, the only human touch I feel is my own, where I enter a world set to keep me cold, calculating, where reality remains unavailable as I’m hidden in a crusted carapace.
Here I’m left to ponder alternative, strange but potentially exciting excesses. Developed, these soon regularly relieve themselves in me, to a point where the balance of satisfaction sways from a simple beauty, to one allied with their darkly complex alternatives. Bathed in the heat of such depraved ejaculates, the gilding is only fools gold but, how easily it holds and hardens for my new preferred projections.
With added risks and dangers bringing things to the point of lift-off, it’s only at the point of delivery that I find myself physically soft, here, bereft of confidence in such appalling coitus, so often I find I have to zip up and zip off, flaccid in body, and in a brain which was not thinking at all.
Struggling and scared at such a revelation, I look at such brazen beauty from an increasing distance, despite wanting to suck out the very dregs of what might have been, I dig deep and am honest enough, for once, to know that it should never again be seen.
Once calm and relatively rational, I ask myself, what is all this testosterone mellifluence for? Such things I would have considered killing for are now just ghosts. Finally unburdened from the beast with two backs, a meal for one is found much closer to home and has more greys than blacks.
Thankfully, dragged back from the brink by autonomous reactions, I fall again onto things worked out to be safe. Despite involving mostly the inanimate, smooth and stout, they are at least things that don’t complain to me, or empty my wallet, or play on my constantly questioned sense of self-worth, fuelled by the faggots of endlessly nagging doubts of living such a life.
But even here, there is the law of ever diminishing returns, marked by markedly less satisfaction and once more I search for a little more risk in which to drown often double bent, each time pushing boundaries that see me cleaving to almost anything and all too soon, it’s back to the worst of the rent.
Hailing them easily, they realise I’m desperate, despite the pain that I feel in my wallet each time I capitulate to their raw deals, I finally reach the most unpalatable of carnal inversions and force feed my satisfaction as they suck me dry, yet I thrust deeper and harder than I could imagine I was capable. Pain is no boundary until it screams and rips the heart from my helmet as it withdraws blooded from its violation. The world spins, and I finally, fall off its rim.
Having tested the worst I thought I could do, morality moves in some mysterious way and I move back to things better known. Although not as diverse, still tasting slightly sweet, it’s a smaller thrill, but a thrill at least, well maybe a treat. But I know it’s still far from acceptable and I have to find a way to accept only the simplest needs of a soft bodied, hard faced, two faced fool, me, the petulant and sociopathetic sod.
Why on earth can’t I just be normal, why was I so scared, so ineffectual when faced by the witless normality of marriage, unwilling to interact with the intimate intricacies of the female garden. It’s simply the male external inverse and internal, how can something unseen make such fear to rage in my head, unfathomable and infernal.
Hanging mid beat, heart strings taught with horrors sing confused songs into my inner ear, so real, they taint every aspect of a falsified existence filled with bodies beautiful both real and unexpected. Yet forced feelings of moral duties rise, and fanciful fantasies have to be banished in favour of a nearly lost love for my family. I try, really I do but the fever is strong and I fail yet again.
With the free attentions of masculine eyes remaining ripe but unattainable, I turn inexorably to more perverse distractions and things that I can’t talk about even here, you can’t imagine the limits of the when, the what, or the who but eventually, even in their limitless embrace, still satisfaction fails this queer. Proving too much, a decision is made, a chapter sealed, a life bagged and busted. Life is unravelling, uncharted once more.
Once my decision to quit all fools is made, that exquisite entourage fades away and, knowing them, straight back to business. However much my choice might be right, every now and again, memories of their tantalising talent taunts, leaving me cruelly listless. In the hollow left from once hard held hopes, there seems little in any life to fill the space formed by a roundness of young rump or a more rigid rebuff.
But it’s over. Only, when left lonely and alone, scarified images remain inside my scull, and I find I divert my crude attentions t’ward richly patinated pictorial pleasures, unclothed in many degrees of proclivity, my restless desire for endless, painless relief is relentlessly wrought, then stored secretly secure for the many long rainy days ahead. All moral debate can be left for some alternate future at an as yet, un-recordable date.
In this re-closeted excess, fluids flow and fancies grow and a catalogue of immense proportions builds. I could drown in my own juices and no one would know, but it’s mine, here at last I can live in a private heavenly world. It’s black, but it’s blessed.
Then needlessly, one hapless day, truth and the law finally outs me, but what did I honestly expect to come from such sordid and vain weakness? What hope for freedom when I can’t detach myself from sleazy flawless youths who compound my untamable lust with their superficial, now only two dimensional perfection in gloss printed sleekness. The glittering baubles of this hidden life are unceremoniously burst with a fan-fair of blue flashing beacons while the mess left behind lies blooded, bruised, all social outcomes now far from certain.
So it’s the big house for me where, on one hand it should’ve been the end of all reasonable life, somehow, there develops a prickly positivity, but then, for one so contrived as I, how could it be anything less like a calamity? In my upside down world, through the usual convoluted cognitive, I set my mind, to do my time, keep my head down although even here, I can’t resist, to sneak a peek when I can, at the muscled madness of man and the most unlikely crafted criminal beauty. Amid the stifling madness I surprise even myself just how easy it is to live and even find safe comfort in this peculiar penitential process.
The only flies in the steel barred ointment are the twice weekly visitations, having to watch the pain of friends and family, lost loved ones all who weep or simper, while all the time the eyes in the back of my head can only think of the magnificence of the hardened faces of exquisite criminal factions, wrapped in danger, burning beautiful and restless behind vacant eyes. Amongst all those exhilarating cons my fancy is never flaunted, despite still harbouring my wild imagination, hopes of hand jobs or better are far from being fulfilled, perhaps it’s enough just to soak up the fumes of their fervour and then, when locked safely away and often only inside my head, be handily relived by my own imaginative relieving.
All too soon and unexpected I’m out, having only just made my mind right to accept ten more years in this somehow satisfying kind of haven. It’s a shock being back in the real world where I find myself even more alone, abandoned, sanctioned to ignore the most painful of cravings. Is there to be no freedom in this war raged by a faceless fanatical law?
Now on the outside, society’s guardians focus their ire deep into my soul and try to work out what makes me tick, unfortunately I find myself stuck for answers, and alternatively pursue the inner workings of these very masculine minders, view their rounded behinds and imagine their rampant pricks.
Three years was my comeuppance and patiently, each weather worn week I trek to talk to my probationary Tom, his order, to tackle all those things that make Me, into the things that are not maybe, really Me. Skilfully, he manages not to drag down my resolve or set a rise to my hackle but, because he is so good at his job and with his pleasant, even vulnerable visage, he makes the process palatable and, at times even manageable. I express my inner workings which, when spoken out sound as they are, rather fay, and somehow, greasy. But even here, in the comfort of his contentment, I leave out the most dire, the most shocking, because, as never being on the radar of this miserable mess, there’s dirt enough to examine, minutely moralise and outwardly repress.
There are those moments that I find I really want to vocally free-fall and digress to the things that would certainly court trouble, or is it just the same old self-destructive need to unleash a greater monster, whose gross value would certainly create an uncompromising shock. Pleading internally against the deed, I keep those darkest thoughts locked away with a certainty that they, most certainly, would put me back behind that still enticing, tantalising, solid built, tattooed and toned, prison warder’s satisfying, but uncompromising lock.
With thoughts of such banished, well at least discouraged, I’m given homework, in whose simple routines return thoughts to school days that I so preferred. With this natural prowess, I buckle down to fill in their forms, write out their essays on life and love and loss, with the hope that the real truth might somehow be out there but, realistically, all still remains deferred.
Strangely, this forced indulgence somehow sparks something rather unexpected, perhaps even useful, it’s where the writing is the thing that I come to enjoy despite the content. In it, I still wrangle with that which it is not so easily deflected, but the outpourings come unrelenting, some disguised vaguely in verse with rhyme and even rhythm, although most is endless eulogising via often ponderous prose. Who knew all that stuff was in there, down deep inside me, flowing out now like some linguistic, high pressure hose.
Soon, with the makings of a book under my hand, the best and the worst of my cruel long-lived disgrace displaying all that is far from normality, when down in print on a page in stark black on white, I see just how far I have travelled from any useful part of humanity. But it’s only a process and it does have its benefits, even if the sum of its parts may never see the sanitising light of day.
Now, with that first labour of twisted and confusing love dotted and done, despite my fears, I look to write lighter words that I can at least share with my peers. Trying perhaps too hard, I craft useful tracts, but as so many slip back to the deep and ever dark subject that holds all my shame, sadly, this self indulgence highlights the fundamental flaws and confirms my self abusing fears. But I persist, and pen verses of simplistic mirth to offer readers and listeners an opportunity for support or at least not speak of it rude, only I know, because of my dark reflections when openly expressed, it can only fail and is guaranteed to bring down the mood.
So, what on earth do you do with all this pent up creative fervour that provides, if nothing else, a rather suspicious, personal pleasure which in turn makes me trip off more dull and formulaic tripe that any half educated buffoon could easily piece together. Perhaps harsh critique is now my personal operandi, perhaps it’s time to stake my claim and look people full square in their often un-accusing eye, consider that my stuffs not all that bad so, to the silent critics hail a lofty, if lonely, half-hearted, Fie!
My Life, Long, still has some little way to go, although, I’m never quite strong enough to grasp every obvious option, I console myself that I can comfortably fit into life without meaningless dreams of ridiculous youth, leaving them behind leaves me with everything to gain and certainly less pain.
Things could be worse I muse, a sensibility still glows in the knowledge that I’m a bent that can never be straightened, and beyond all hope I now curl up and coddle not only my own limped self-worth, there’s now also another’s penal penance cupped in warming hands, meekly, strengthened by the knowledge that what life is left, even if fruitless, at least it will be pleasantly lengthened.
You are the sunshine in my once mundane life
You burn patterns of joy on my thumping heart
May you never set
But if you do, let it be in a blaze of red and purple and gold as together, we slip below the line of fire at loves hard horizon
My contribution to an anthology of writing from one of the writer’s groups I am part of entitles ‘Memento’ by the members of Pens of Erdington
As both a writer, and a Rollason,
my interest was curiously pricked,
after moving to Erdington
from way out in the countryside sticks
where for reasons that don’t matter here,
our family held some sway,
here in the big city I was just another resident
going about their business, day by day by day.
But I soon saw my name on signs,
here and there so then I thought
I would consider looking into these curious things
and maybe, dish some dirt,
but really to find out some historical things,
that might be interesting to share
if nothing more than a name in common and dare I say it,
perhaps, some kind of flare.
So, there I found this man, Able Rollason,
it seemed an industrialist of some local note
who settled here in Erdington
and without really needing to gloat,
built a successful business in steel, wire and metal,
fired by wood, coal and coke.
He also delivered a family of 5 children,
which I’m sure took hard work and acumen to cope.
He grew broad in social stature
and took the City Council to London’s High Court
for not clearing the drains of detritus and dead dogs
in the water he sought
to run, not just his business but,
the many others around him, growing rapidly
and because of his persistence,
diverse industry thrived to greater and greater capacity.
He also looked at the local community
and helped where he could, here and there,
so the good and the great of the township
named a road for him, just to show that, they care.
In both work and philanthropy so well did they do,
Able, Rachel and their family a plenty,
they moved to the Hall at Pype Hayes with its grounds,
now the park enjoyed, by so many.
At an earlier point they lived in a slightly less big house,
but still nice, at Shepherd’s Green,
only a short walk from where I lived,
which was what had originally made me so keen
to find out more of our wider genealogy,
but sadly, there was no apparent easy link and
any thoughts of industrial wealth coming along,
were sadly lacking, not that I really did think.
Anyway, I’m sure that there could be some branch in a tree,
maybe if only a tenuously and thin one
that could link me to him if I did enough digging and delving,
perhaps it might even be fun.
But somehow it’s just nice to know that you share,
a little of something with a minor local hero
if only a family name, seeing it on signs and buildings gives one,
dare I say it, a warm kind of glow.
The collection is about the places and people in and around Erdington, an interesting suburb of Birmingham in the UK. The book is available online at the link here.
After a loss, we look for ways to cope, to grieve, to consolidate and continue. This I write after the loss of my mother.
Words type easy
Sentiment flows swiftly
But when the two collide?
Heartache and longing.
So, you write the former
Dip your toe in the latter
Try to avoid the stabbing hurt in the sucking morass of your loss
Will time soften?
You hope at least
That words you’ve offered oh so many times
Will ring true
Its our personal imperfections that make us unique.
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Herbert Steib schreibt im Literatur Blog über Literatur, Autoren, Kritiken, Kreatives Schreiben. Lesetagebuch.
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