Posts Tagged ‘solitude’

 

mural-on-indian-red-ground

Dodgy poems for dodgy times
A rotten orifice oozing slime
Freaking out the normal people
With socially awkward ramblings
Saying the wrong thing
Without even knowing it
Is difficult like a knot of barbed wire
To make a connection
Even if you mean well
Just being friendly
Mistaken verbal bumbling
Losing your interlocutor’s attention
Trying to break solitude
With connection

loneliness2

Understand the solitary man
Burnt out tree lost in a forest of loneliness
Pebble under an infinite mountain
He puts on a mellow album
Smokes a couple of cones
Lights mandarin flavoured incense
Stares at the dirty plates and empty drink bottles surrounding him and recoils at how dirty the coffee table is
Considers doing the washing
Considers moving the dirty plates to the kitchen
Doesn’t move

His mental soliloquy:
“Oh my filth, my precious filth
No-one can tell me to clean up
At least I know where things are
Oh God ,I’m getting fat
My back aches when I walk
I’m going to die alone in a rented room
From a heart attack or lung cancer
Or I’ll get diabetes and someone will chop off my leg”

Paranoia, paranoia most foul in lonely rooms all over the world where excess men who nobody wants live out their pathetic lives
His personal space is small
No-one wants to invade it
His dreams are always full of women
But his life is empty of them
Too depressed to jerk off but soaked in longing
Waiting for death
Understand the solitary man

burrendah

Burrendah Primary School in the outer suburb of Willetton in Perth
New plants- short stubby bushes and asbestos clad buildings still in primary colours
Kids in maroon uniforms- swarms of little boys and girls

The little blonde boy stands alone in the withering wind in the undercover area
The Fremantle doctor has come in again
Pole straight he stares into the cold steel pylon, hiding behind it from the other children
Willing the school day to end

Oh infinite aching solitude
Oh twisted random mind
Churning full of white noise
No other children talk to him
Except the bully who pushes him over so he scrapes his knee on the bitumen

When he gets home he is happy
Immersed in the rich private world of his toys
His parents never know how he suffers
Like John of the Cross in a box

loneliness
An undercover area in a primary school on a sumptuous day
It has a floor of bitumen and steel girders hold up an orange roof of steel
The Fremantle doctor is whistling through from the south-west,
Cooling the children at play
Behind one of the steel columns holding up the roof is a little boy of no more than seven: blond and wan and pale
He can’t kick a football
He always comes last in running races
He isn’t playing with the other children
He is a lone sentinel in the midst of the unalloyed joy of his peers
The mechanics of friendship are mystery to him
The mechanics of conversation are a mystery to him
His head is full of murky poison thought
Chills of freezing isolation run up and down his spine
He fears that if the others saw the darkness lurking in his heart they would be revolted
He imagines being popular and having friends sometimes but it seems an unattainable dream
His life is a solitary nightmare at school
And his nightmares are the stuff of meta-nightmares

Solitude

Posted: September 17, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

alone-heart-solitude-lonely
My self-esteem is wizened by the withering winds of change.
My heart is now corrupted and will never be the same.
The ache of solitude bites my limbs and kicks me in the balls.
Mediocrity is lurking in the corners and the halls.

The town is full of women who will never sleep with me,
The town is full of whispers of corruption and decay,
And in my secret heart’s dreams there is death and treachery.
A conspiracy of loneliness crushes love and blights the day.

The meaning of the meaning is that life is a mountain of pain:
Troubles multiply and poison everything again and again,
Pestilent people try to break into my life through the doors of perception,
Paranoia peaks through the blinds in my arcane brain.

And there is nothing to be done about it, nothing to be said about it.
Life continues in an almost infinite erratic line radiating from the centre of the now,
And every day is littered with the corpses of the past:
Until we are liberated from our festering flesh at last.