My toy, my dream, my rest.

Forgetting authority and industry, i beg with earnest for things not to change so
dramatically
Where pleas are left to the cadence
of whims. Most sullen at best.
In suspension whence i was once first, whither i know not. – now third i stand, forever in postponement
it does not sit well, it suits me not. – This misadventure.

Perhaps it is time to collect my coat, for it is cold outside, &
gelidity is no longer my element.
Of confessional poetry now idiosyncratic;
disarming, & gallant (all forthwith)
I wish you knew. you would never comprehend. How beautiful – wonderful, achingly so;

My soul is a sight.

Monologue epilogue.

“What do you think will happen to me when i expire?” your grip had loosened and your eyes had wandered.

Your lips still wet, glistened beneath the citrus lights, and your hair was in a precious mess.

“You would become the voice in my head.” with that, i turned to walk away in pseudo triumph.

“And i will speak softly, and without pause. What you do not hear, would at once be lost.”

It astounds me, how people so easily succumb to passionate fires that would sooner turn us into cinders than to let us languish in its warm embrace.
Only you would beg to differ.

Monologue.

The rain beat gently against the shut window where you sat, staring out at the sky as if it beckoned to you. I have kept my distance table’s length, steeped in my wonderment and admiration for your stargazing buoyancies which you make no effort to conceal. Needless to say, i was taken aback when you took my hand and placed it against the frosted glass.

“The sky has weeped ceaselessly since you’ve strayed from me. Why do you not alleviate its dolour?” She whispered, never turning away from the vista.
I did not speak, lest i forfeit my current disposition with you, as i have understood that your distaste levies strongly on inventive cecity.

“You pride yourself as a storyteller? Then pray thee, tell me a story.” Your eyes do not mock, and your face lay honest; your words have never obnubilated your capricious intentions.

“My incomprehension confounds me and i will never completely translate you. You, with all your immoderate delights and misanthropic immanence.
How do i prove to you that i am not as earthbound as you would construe, that like you, i have concealed my wings for the better part of my life. I am in abeyance, just like you, waiting to soar into the sky that we gaze at with so much fascination.” My heart pleads, but i was wont to offer the same placid countenance that i am steadily growing to despise.

“I see.” I had pulled you from your abstraction and you afforded me a wistful smile; i am in love with your nonchalance.

An affirmation; This is not how we were, but this is how i will always remember you, for my heart has inherited you (you, with all your immoderate delights and misanthropic immanence).

Squalor victoria.

Whence we forsake our friends, we would contradance, at once eye to eye and hand in hand, then cheek to cheek and heart to heart. As the eventide matures, we’d sit on chairs stark white against benighted green as we cast curses at miserable conditions whilst discounting our own indolence. (How so very juvenile of us)

I offer a placid countenance, claiming steadfast omniscience, but in truth i stand far from it. Within, my thoughts are wassailers to a hellion’s callathump, wedding my soul in torsion to a redundance of prohibition therein which i find myself coalesced in child-like curiosity. I muse with vindication; what with all our soaring dreams and apotheosise of romance, if we were made for this world. (Though i wouldn’t really want to meet someone who was)

Otiose ideas aside, i must assert that i have recently foundered and am no longer in dominance/restraint.

In essence, I no longer author my own disaster.

Feelings pending.

Everything comes back tenfold, withal i have understood that we choose our friends, likewise we choose our faces.

Time and again, the mechanical culture of salutation has awaken us from our quietus so that we may once more ruminate and deplore circumstance. With our intentions set in stone, all that remains is to pioneer our odyssey into the new empire, where modest delights crown priceless revelries. However, the road is fractal and somewhere along the way, i have forgotten what it felt like to be “okay”.

In excursus; with the same amusment as how i look upon each day as a funeral, i daresay it is amazing how so many hearts are breaking all at once. All around the world.

A celebration of martyrdom.

Possibly the only day of the terrestrial cycle that each and every man on earth gets to throw off their mundane shackles, bite a blood red rose and with all risibility, attempt to play Romeo for the day.

Alas, perverted by man’s innate lust for wealth; Valentine’s Day has been commercialised to the point that romance is nothing more than a violet box of Swedish chocolate wrapped with golden lace, bundled together with an exanimate display of colours comprising of culled flowers, made to smile with impeccable grooming.

Purchased with a combination of two things, a month’s allowance and a trip to the mall.

I am not entirely cynical. I do believe that some still manage to hold true to the paragons of Valentine’s Day, looking beyond the romanticised theorem that business enthusiasts without hearts wish to sell to the callow multitude. These people alone endure the sickness that is contemporary Valentine’s Day and they will continue to resist the vile out selling of the quixotic season.

And what do I think is the meaning of Valentine’s? Why, it is of course a violet box of Swedish chocolate wrapped with golden lace, bundled together with an exanimate display of colours comprising of culled flowers, made to smile with impeccable grooming.

Purchased with a combination of two things, love and desire.

Further elaboration is only necessary for the business enthusiasts (without hearts).

Without promise.

“What are you trying to do?”
I’d ask in tones wistful and full of heartbreak.

We’d run with dismay. For i’ve come to understand that it is indeed truth, that you harbour no subsequent motive nor desire any outcome that would reinvent our romance.

And what can i do? When the pernacious temptation to hold you would drown my better judgement and common sense (the same way it always has).

That is my quandary; The legacy of my dolourous days are collapsing into demise, as i watch with fists clenched, eyes shut and chest wide open.
I have pledged collapse.

Yet, i still wish you were trying.

Forlorn at 4am.

Driven to ruin, why would i still let you hold the reins? To sooner forget then to forgive.
Dreadful, dreadful.

With much regret, I have let you become more than you have ever been to me.

Fulminant desires to experience your presence before me, within and without. Revenant retentions that will not cease.
Plague me, plague.

Ever onward with my head turned, looking back.
Where are you?

Gone, gone.

February.

Inadvertently, we pave the road to the new empire with much dissent. Obligating ourselves to haphazardly construe liberal thoughts whilst filtering out the drivel. And should said liberal thoughts become taboo, do we cede in mute rebellion or excogitate means to release our hearts from our tumultuous selves?

Be mindful darling, for such notions are often  disparaged by euphuism nonpareil.

In other tidings; was it such a heartbreaking euphemism to let fly emotions that would otherwise be regarded inane and without purpose (much like your endless apologies)? Post trauma ire is the spoil of this Pyrrhic victory, and you would do well to understand that.

I love you, but you’re bringing me down.

Her eyes, not of dark liquour but of bright alabaster sky.
Her skin, not of sun tinted hues, but of porcelain white.
Her taste, not of fiscal fairs at Orchard road but of wide boulevards at Les Champs-Elysées.
Her causerie, not of confused languages but of wonderfully melodic phrase.
Her stroll, not along overcrowded Boat Quay but along the quixotic River Seine.
Her romance, not set against a city of arduous toll but against the City of Lights.

I’d imagine an eventide where her hand is wrapped in mine, as we sit upon the stairs of Rue de Mont Cenis, staring far beyond the horizon of Montmartre
To a sky, not of glaring grey emptiness but of canvas painted in wild rapture.
My love, not of your heartbreaking propensities but of her exquisiteness bordering on the perfection of reel.

Two thousand two is the year you left.

The curtain call required us to rise to a standing ovation and demand an encore of the performers, but we sat silent. Dried streams of tears were apparent under the crepuscular lighting of the theatre.

Earlier we had talked rather jubilantly as the overture hummed in the background. Unlike the many magnates that sat around us with complacency on the tip of their tongues, we were two bourgeois teenagers enjoying the more eminent pleasures of the world.

My voguish marriage to the world of fine arts had brought us together, but I did not feel the slightest solicitude when the protagonist fell in our own aesthetically fractured tale.

I had chosen to patronise her and lead her on with my pretentious gestures and words, which spoke of boundless romance. All this was very puerile of me, as it was the season of separation and I was stupid with confidence.

And then you spoke. “This maybe a theatre, but this is no place for your foolish theatrics.”

You left me with an overwhelming and ineffable effusion. And I think I have fallen in love with you for that.

Breathe with me.

Inclinations supersede regular modality, and i find myself stopping dead in my tracks to inhale the January air.

It really is not a difficult trade, a rhapsody of emotions cumulated from your very ephemeral animation in exchange for the splendid taste of placidity, a world full of sybaritic pleasures. Truly something anyone with good taste would find hard to refuse.

These are the most precious of moments that punctuate our existence.

Cognisant.

Familiarity to such circumstances has allowed me to grow accustomed to the rhythmic patterns that play upon my chest.
To accept the cards dealt with the verity of future romance far from found.
I am left with the speculative notion that life’s panache is indeed of stochastic phenomena!

Of wantonness most abundant, I would discountenance myself.
But i will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at, for i am not what i am, and i could be yours nevermore.

Five Senses. Revival.

All the way into my troubled mind
everything lies dead, frozen in time.
Nevertheless I continue to live
eat, sleep, dream and breathe.

My true reality begins when I dream
contradicting, chaotic; ridiculous it may seem.
Owning five senses, I still lack the last.
The sense of belonging, it is a must.

I can no longer trust my eyes as they warp sight
bend, deform and manipulate the light.
My decrepit human ears cannot really hear,
the screams from my mind, my crowning fear.

My sense of touch, faulted by prolonged utilization
I am unable to use it to feel any human emotion.
And what is wrong with my sense of smell?
The foulness behind that smile, I cannot tell.

Finally coming down to my worthless sense of taste
there is no use for that in this vapid place.
With no sense of belonging, I continue to wander
Everything i am and everything i was, torn asunder.

Hinder.

Last night we celebrated life behind the curtains of the world. Shrouded breaths rise in cadence as curious fingers run over delicate skin. You had pledged collapse with Arcadia in the background, hitherto my refusal to comply has left us strung out and retired.

And it has come as a certainty to me, that you are indeed someone who can make me smile. Yet, the realization that you are not here, no longer brings the all too familiar tides of crushing anguish.

You had pledged collapse, with fists clenched, eyes shut and chest wide open. I will never comply.