Restless

“I am so tired – so tired of being of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually.” ― Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South 
forensicate
Exhausted, breathless from every chase
Every path comes back on itself
I’m no farther down the road
Then when I first began
Lessons learned but hard to follow
I repeat them again on this crazy journey
I suppose the simplicity of what I am
Is clearest in the darkness of wandering
If I’ve found one thing that’s sure and true
Peace is precious and hard to find
Harder to get and even harder to keep
If the wars on the outside put me in
The wars on the inside put me out
There is no rest and perhaps
That’s the next step
This rest that evades me
Will continue to hide
Until I find the peace
That cries in the night

White Noise

“It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.”
Don DeLillo, White Noise 
killedtheinnocentpeople

 

Always company to the old scenes,
a noise it follows,
a voice alone in the streets.
Blankets of sound wrap me tight,
with no comfort noise,
in the blackness of night.
Garbled whispers nothings clear,
except the noise
of failure and then fear
My blurry mind is all full of snow,
white washed noise,
an emery pain makes it glow.
Flipping the channels all in vain,
the hissing noise,
Will come back again.

Dreamweaver – Nightmares of Abuse

“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose, and do something terrible.
[Burnside, p. 27]”
John Burnside, A Lie About My Father: A Memoir 

The following is an excerpt from the hopeforhealing.org.,  poetry by survivors of sexual or domestic violence.

 

aneasylife4u

Come, beckons the night,
Let us dance together, and chase the dream weaver
I am not laughing at you
It is only the laughter of the past
Rushing through your brain
 
I am harmless, why do you resist me so?
Pearls of wisdom are here within my walls
And peace offerings as well
Yet you quake at the sight of me
My power has not alluded you
 
Need I remind you?
You cannot resist me forever!
I am that necessary evil
Which recreates evil past
My nourishment lies in your screams
So, foolish one, scream on!
 
No one is listening, no one hears
Wake them; tell them of your sad tales
I will recapture them before your voice silences
But they will not find your persecutor
And will think you mad
 
Reach for the sun, it is hours ’til its’ dawn
As I am your punisher, it is your reward
However, for now I am your companion
Let us dance together, and chase the dreamweaver
Come, I beckon you
011912

Disease

“I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness – a real thorough-going illness.” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground 
“Despair filled his skull even more tightly than his own brain. All around him cars filled with normal people perfectly unaware of the disease turning Perry’s body inside out. Fucking normal people.” ― Scott Sigler, Infected   

He folded his arms, tightly, like a knot by a five-year-old, and scratching an unconscious itch, wondered at the bloody drop rolling down his aging skin. Wiping it away, he couldn’t help but taste the irony of death. The tics and eccentric behaviors that manifested since the incident made him an odd sort. It wasn’t his fault, he was told about the consequences of playing with the dark. The dark, always forbidding, forever in tales of lore and fables of heroes and damsels, wasn’t he warned? He wanted to see what was hidden, what moved and was caught out of the corner of his eye, begging an explanation. The blackness held an allure, pushing him into a sort of night that comes on those depressed and abused, and holds them, protecting and discouraging at the same time. On that night, he witnessed what others only pretended to know. 
Praying to the powers that kept life and death apart, he fell forward into the darkness, wholly accepting whatever lived there. As he strained to see, he knew that his senses were his friends, and not the eyes that betrayed him. The shadows boiled and rolled, threatening, yet, comforting. Things calling him, bringing whispers and tickles on the back of his neck. The holy house stood confident at the beginning, though the shadows within betrayed that camouflage. Some shadows were darker than others, malevolent and unforgiving. These fear provoking shades are the ones he desired, the dangerous, the despised, and angry forgotten ones, forgotten by fear and ignorance, chased away, but only in their minds, they drew his curiosity. As one gathered itself from the rolling chaos, it writhed up from the depths and called his name, not his given name, but a name he never knew, a name that reminded him of fairy tales and legends. This began his love affair with the dark and conceiving a hatred for the cursed disease called life. Others longed to live, but he, only to die. Life offered no solace, no hope, but the great emptiness of death, there a lover waited that never left and forever hissed the affection that only cold embraces can show.

Sheets

“The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.” – Rupert Brooke

nicholaspadula
We succumb to the softly falling sheets, gently settling, as a billow of laughter touches our skin lightly at first, then, holding us in cool delight. Little is known of the heat born as the neatly lying cotton cage begins to twist and flip while we twirl beneath it. We give birth in our playful gathering to memories, touches that last and excite through the night, the dawn, and the new day and days. There is where our happiness finds a purchase, in wrinkled sheets lying on the bed’s corner, falling on the floor, leaving us to cover our nakedness with a dozen pillows that allow our satiated skin, still wet with the practice of secret pleasure, to peek out in childish delight. 

Also published in Broowaha

"Why?" – Questions are answered tomorrow

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language.”

 

 
sensosketch

When the storm rages on the oceans way, 

“Why?” is not a question for the gales stay.

When the earth trembles and shakes us deep, 
“Why?” is not a question we should keep.

When the starry skies shed their bright lights, 
“Why?” is not a question for that dark night.

Reap the strong currents of dire sorrow,
 “Why?” is answered only by tomorrow…

06222012

Nightfall – Grip of the illicit

“I was more addicted to self destruction then to the drugs themselves … 
something very romantic about it” – Gerard Way

“Drugs are a bet with your mind.” – Jim Morrison

   

indiscreet-girl

Your legs are splayed in graphic way

Wanting to leave this world, come and play
Scoring your hits under the dark world
Flying inhibition burned in pink pearl
Reaching for your body magnificent
I’m held at bay by your habit’s descent
Changing fondled object of desire
Picking at your curves, soft skin on fire
Tears are my lover as you fade from sight
Pleasure was ours until you hid in your night