Why are people obsessed with taking photos of themselves? There is a vast, magical world and universe to seek and find, to waste time instead seeking to share images of ourselves is a crime against the gift of existence…
Maybe it’s what I find closest in true intimacy with a Woman,
when delving so deep that She and I have no interest in,
let alone have any chance of finding,
where one ends and the other begins././
the true intimacy with Nature transcends the flesh,
the individual and moments of cocoon from all other humanity,
our lust drowned and become found more magnificent and dazzling,
in an ocean of Want,
of animal Hunger feasting on the flames lit by One (an)other…
I am trying to STOP the constant flow of wayward dizzy spilling of virtual ink,
‘take breath and look back, edit, try make perfect’ people keep telling me…
It feels wrong.
It feels an insult to the core and inner twine of all I have ever written,
as pronouncing and projecting myself as closer to the Wilderness,
than a ghoul manipulator of my own…writing.
I dont want or need to be called a poet.
I dont want or need to have anyone find a ‘use’ for my words.
They are always,
now, before, after,
of existence of a man well traveled,
scarred above and below the top soil of my aesthetic appearance,
never seeking applause,
sharing my blizzards and flashfloods,
solely to seek, hope to find kinship in the struggle and muddle of LIFE…
I feel odd and wrong even delving into the leather bound wolf book,
gifted to me by the poetess sadist I will adore till my end,
for what is scribbled on those pages,
was for whatever was happening at the time,
PURE REAL GOOD FOR ALL TIMES,
I dont write DRAFTS.
I write for whatever moves me in head or heart,
its often the wind, the tides, the seagulls, the ladybirds, the rats, the moths…
and to write anything,
if its meant with my everything,
is always a reflection of the source of my reason for writing…as in,
honest, open reflections…
I scowl to be suggested an artist.
for in this realm of the soulless and absent of the vigour I find alive,
many present themselves as this term.
who are vapid fiends with a prescription of outline to suggest….
More happiness comes when anyone reads my scrambled transmissions,
and tells me they can find some resonance….
that is all that I am doing.
with this incessant need to express…
Those who have long understood as much of me that can make any sense,
know my outbursts as my heart expanding,
written by my mind,
to try, forlornly, to fill in the gaping gap between me and my long estranged tribe…
I am connected by invisible string to everyone I have loved deeply and truly.
We meet in dreams, in thought, in music, in my heart widening with joy when I see images of their devotion to their little ones and wives,
and I still dream of every woman I have loved.
There is no past tense Have Been in Love…it becomes a part of me as close as breathing.