The Inconsistencies of Friendship and the Flesh

This is the first story in my collection of shorter short stories called “Short Stories on Acid.”

Foreword

A hit of Acid (LSD) is usually ingested in the form of a small piece of blotter paper dipped in liquid LSD about a quarter of an inch square, in a piece of gelatin a little smaller called Window Pane, in a tiny concentrated form called a Microdot, or in its liquid form dropped on the tongue or in the eyes.  Any way it is taken, a very small amount is sufficient to send all the user’s senses spiraling into a wonderland of sensations unlike any other for as long as twenty-four hours depending upon the dosage.  A small amount packs a hell of a punch and has the potential to change a person’s entire perception of the world forever from a single dose.  It also can turn a person hopelessly insane….

A short story, I believe, should be just that—a short story—but most short stories have the tendency to be more like a novella.  A short story is usually about 50,000 words and to me that seems a lot for a ‘short story’.  Now don’t get me wrong, I am just as guilty of writing short stories that approach this length and many of them I am very proud of.  But often when I have made the decision to write a short story and the concept is particularly fruitful for me and I am thoroughly enjoying myself writing, suddenly I find myself (usually at around the 30,000-word mark) realizing that I am nowhere near resolving any of the conflicts, character or moral issues of the story and I know that the remaining words I have left will not suffice.  So, I am confronted with a choice; do I stop writing a short story and turn it into a novella or even a novel?  Or do I try to solve these issues quickly which usually means that the story becomes, in my opinion, incomplete which will leave the reader feeling dissatisfied.  And it was having to constantly make this choice that began to piss me off….

In my late teens and early twenties, me and my group of tight knit friends took Acid regularly.  I loved the drug but just like anything in this world, too much of a thing can cause problems and after a particularly close call with permanent madness because of my overindulgence, I stopped using it….

So, flash forward to me in my forties having a conversation about artists and the effects of drugs on their work, and although I do agree that drugs can affect an artist’s work, I don’t believe that it is because of the influence of the drug while it is in one’s system but because many types of drugs open the doors of our perception, to use the phrase that Aldous Huxley coined.  I never wrote anything particularly mind-blowing on Acid though I cannot deny that Acid not only opened the doors of my already artistic perception further, but in combination with my already eccentric mind it caused perhaps a paradigm shift in my previously prudish Catholic schoolboy mentality, opening new creative pathways within me.  But who knows?  That could simply be the LSD, that will forever remain in my system, talking now….

“Short Stories on Acid” is my attempt to recreate the mental pandemonium that results from ingesting LSD, albeit in a literary format.  I aimed to recreate the psychological pressure, the emotional turbulence and the spiritual euphoria by feeding my readers stories of a length much shorter than the traditional short story.  I envisioned my readers swallowing a small dose of my words and then being dragged into a literary madhouse of my making which despite their short length, will stay with them forever.  Sometimes these stories, like Acid, taste like shit; and at other times they have no flavor.  In some cases, they are deliciously sweet, and in others they are as bitter as gall.  But always, they will make the reader feel and see things whether they want to or not, for once the reader decides to take my stories into themselves I can guarantee that they will most certainly be affected.  Whether, (like Acid) their experience will a good thing or a bad thing is irrelevant, because just like the drug, the experience will be filtered through the lens of that person’s own life.  This is the catalyst which transforms my own humble creations from the chaff they can sometimes be to the wheat they hope to be, and likewise transmute them from the gold that they think they are to the lead that they really are.  I urge the reader to try them but also, of course, to enjoy them responsibly!

Jean-marc Iyeli Adeyemi Akerele

December 3, 2017.

The Inconsistencies of Friendship and the Flesh

“Holy shit! Did you see that?”

“What?”

“Look right there at the intersection.  Is that what I think it is?”

“Whoa!  That looks just like a……”

“I know right!  And look! There’s a guy chasing after it!”

“Damn.  And judging from the look on his face, it belongs to him.”

“Unless he stole it from someone and it escaped and is now trying to find its way back to its rightful owner.”

The two men sitting at the table on the outdoor patio of this local Starbuck’s, looked at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing, eliciting stares from the other patrons who had not just witnessed what they had just seen.

“I tell you Tom,” said the blond one, “this particular Starbucks is awesome.  It must sit on some type of spiritual nexus, because some of the things that I have seen happen here, you’d never believe if I told you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tom, “what other stuff are you talking about?  I mean what we just saw was pretty messed up.  Are you telling me this kind of stuff happens here all the time?”

“Shit,” replied Dave, the brunette one, “there are so many stories that I could tell you.  Where would I start?”

“How about you start by explaining to me what we just saw?”

“Let’s see.  I don’t know the particulars of this incident, since I witnessed it at the same time as you, but I can tell you of another incident that happened here that was very similar.  While I’m at it, I might as well tell you about the conversation I overheard here, in which some guy was in talking to his friend in a panic about his girlfriend’s breasts.”

“That sounds pretty mundane, compare to what we just witnessed, Tom.”

“No, it’s not.  Wait until you hear it and you’ll understand that it was far from mundane.  There is also the story about the woman who had a problem with her rather vocal lips.”

“Her lips?”

“Not those ones.”

“Oh.  What sort of problem?”

“Hold on.  First, I’ll start with the story of the runaway genitalia.

 

{Frederick and Jake}

 

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told you the last time that I would never do this again for you and promised never to ask me again.”

“I only promised because I never really believed that you were being serious.  I mean come on, it’s what you’re made for, for god’s sake!”

“No, it’s not.  Not for god’s sake or anyone else’s will I be doing her so get the idea out of your head and stop asking me.”

“Listen Frederick, I know that you are upset but please, I swear to you, seriously, that this will be the last time.”

“No.  And those are the exact words that you used to persuade me last time.  Don’t piss me off Jake, it’s not going to happen.”  Jake took a deep breath to calm himself.  Why was Frederick being so obtuse?  After all, it’s not as if this was the first time they had done this, so what was his problem this time?

“Hey Jake,” said Frederick from his perch, “you do know that I can hear all your thoughts?  We are, after all connected intimately.  So, whatever it is you think you can say to try and persuade or even force me into doing this, you had better think twice about, because I have a few tricks of my own that you don’t know about.”

“Oh really?” said Jake, who was now thoroughly pissed off, “what if I simply denied you completely then?  I doubt that you would be so picky at that point,’ he smirked.

“First, you couldn’t last a week of celibacy.  And second, if you think that you can starve me into submission think again; because if try, I will simply get up and leave.  I do have other options you know.”

“What the fuck are you talking about Frederick?” Jake shouted angrily, “you can’t just get up and leave, so you might as well prepare yourself, because we are so doing this.”

“No, I will not bang another nasty, fugly, chick just because she has a phat ass.  Have some dignity for god’s sake.  And by the way, FYI, I can just get up and leave so I suggest you not piss me off any further.”

“Frederick,” Jake began in his most condescending tone, “with all due respect to our unusual relationship, you do remember that you are attached to my body?  How the hell do you plan on leaving me?”

“Since you want to be an ass, “said Jake, suddenly standing up straight, “why don’t I just show you?”  And having said those fateful words, Jake’s penis, Frederick detached itself from his groin and took off, rolling away from Jake swiftly, using its testicles as wheels, before Jake could even think of stopping it, so stunned was he at this turn of events.  There was no blood, no gaping wound and no pain, just an empty space, a strange grey void which quickly sealed itself.  As soon as Jake had regained his wits, he grabbed his pants and took off running after his cock and balls which, were now rolling down the street past the local Starbucks at a fast clip, much to the surprise of the café patrons, especially when Jake came racing down the street after them, his pants still in his hands, shouting apologies and begging for Frederick to come back……..

 

 

 

{James and Jasmine}

 

Jasmine drew off the pink silk tank top that she was wearing even as she continued to caress James’ sides.  Moving quickly, she pushed him backwards and then reached down and yanked down his underpants to his ankles, and James who was as turned on as Jasmine seemed to be, quickly stepped out of them even as she the unfastened her bra and unleashed her magnificent breasts for his perusal.  Not wanting to waste any time, Jasmine quickly dropped to her knees in front of him, her mouth skillfully descending in the same motion onto the tip of his stiff cock and sliding down to engulf the entire shaft in one smooth motion.  Jasmine was an expert; a woman whose oral skills was at times scary because of the intensity and focus with which she performed fellatio, but today, even as she drew her mouth off his prick, she seemed to have another treat in store for James.

She spat on his cock several times, smearing her saliva on it until it was so well lubricated that it glistened and gleamed like polished silver, then if one swift motion she slid his throbbing shaft between her gorgeous melons and began to squeeze her breast onto his shaft as she rubbed them up and down its length.  The suddenly after a minute or so, she stood up.  She kissed James deeply and then pushed him backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards onto it, tumbling onto his back even as she clambered onto him, quickly placing her luscious tits back onto his prick and continuing what she had started on her knees.

She slid herself up and down the length pf James for a few sweet moments before moving off him and rolling onto her back.  She indicated clearly what she wanted to him by beckoning to him and squeezing her cleavage open and closed until James finally crouched over her and placed his slick cock in her deep cleavage and began to thrust, even as she kept him trapped there in her delicious mounds of soft and luscious flesh.  As James continued to thrust into the valley between her immense breasts, he began to feel as if his cock was being engulfed by her mountainous orbs, but each time he tried to look down at them, Jasmine would grab his face between her hands and tell him to look at her face instead.  He soon began to feel drowsy and dreamy; a smooth lethargy drifted over him; and when he finally erupted in a massive orgasm he passed out with joy and contentment etched on his now sleeping features.

Jasmine carefully rolled the now sleeping James off her body and adjusted his sleeping form so that he would be comfortable while he slept.  There wasn’t much blood this time, she observed, as she watched her breasts pulse and shimmer as they absorbed James’ blood and semen.  The tiny mouths in the valley between them were sighing in contentment, so Jasmine rolled herself back onto James’ prick so that her breasts could milk the last dregs of blood and semen from him before the soporific that her vampiric breasts has secreted into him began to wear off.  When James woke up he would feel satiated and happy, believing that he had experienced probably the best orgasm in his life by titty-fucking Jasmine.  What he could not know was that Jasmine’s breasts were a unique form of vampire which shared a symbiotic relationship with Jasmine, who acted as their caretaker in exchange for certain physical benefits such as longevity, youth and physical strength.  But unlike all other previous occasions when they had fed upon Jasmine’s unsuspecting sex partners, James seemed to have some sort of natural immunity to the soporific and as a result he was not completely unaware of what had happened to him, because the next day while having coffee with a friend at the same local Starbucks where Tom regularly got his coffee, James was overheard telling a very strange tale about a beautiful woman with immense and very vampiric breasts which drained him of blood and semen while he titty-fucked her……..

{Theresa’s Lips}

 

Theresa loved music. But what she really loved was live shows.  There was something about the energy that reverberated through a coliseum or a theater or a concert hall which touched her in a way that recorded music could not.  The vibrancy of the performers, their joy, sadness, and passion all touched her intimately in ways that she believed, very correctly, that no one else could possibly ever understand.  For the culmination of the many effects of these concerts had somehow caused a part of her to come alive in a way that made having normal romantic relationships with others very difficult, and rather awkward.

It all began when she was fourteen and she went to see a Justin Bieber concert with a group of friends and their respective dates.  After what turned out to be a great concert, while making out with her date in the back of his car, her date (who was not very experienced at sixteen years old himself) tried to push his finger into her virginal orifice rather forcefully, her vagina let out a bloodcurdling scream that shocked them both, because at the time, both of their mouths had been fully engaged in kissing and not only that, the scream had clearly come from a southern direction.

They were temporarily startled out of their arousal, trying to figure out what had just happened but since they had both been thoroughly enjoying themselves and being horny teenagers, they put it out of their minds and resumed where they had left off before the scream.  This time, Theresa spread her legs wide enough so that her date had even easier access in his youthful attempts at exploration.  But as he slid his finger back into her, there was a horrible groan followed by what seemed to be heavy breathing and crying.  Alarmed, her date immediately disengaged, his adolescent imagination in that moonlit night running away from him, and despite Theresa’s continued assurances that everything was fine, he decided that they should call it a night.  He drove her home in silence and quickly left her at her front door step without even a goodnight kiss.  Theresa was very upset; she had no idea what had happened and indeed believed that someone had played a bad practical joke on her.  As she got undressed and ready for what would no doubt be a miserable and frustrating night of sleep, she froze; someone was speaking to her and the voice seemed to be coming from between her legs.

At first, she was confused, trying to figure out what was going on and what was being said until finally she opened her legs and the voice, now unmuffled shouted, “You stupid bitch! Tell that motherfucker to be gentler next time, I’m not a fucking pin cushion for him to just ram pointy things into!”  When Theresa looked down and realized that her pussy was speaking to her, the labial lips moving just like a mouth, she did the only thing a woman could do in such a situation; she fainted.

It was the energy of the live music that had somehow brought her vagina to life and though this might have disturbed someone else, once she had gotten over her initial shock, Theresa was excited; a sentient vagina meant that she now had all sorts of new frontiers to explore down there through her living pussy’s detailed instruction.  In time, Theresa grew to know her pussy better than any woman who had ever lived.

The years passed, and boyfriends came and went.  Theresa learned how to pretend that the whispered instructions her vagina gave to these unsuspecting men were really coming from her and men, being as oblivious as they are with respect to the female reproductive organ, had no inkling of the truth.  And this beautiful arrangement would have continued forever if Theresa had not chosen to sit at a certain table at the local Starbucks where at the exact moment when a runaway penis chose to leap into her lap to hide from its owner, who was running down the street not far behind it, half-naked, and desperately searching for it.

Theresa immediately felt the change in her vagina.  It seemed to stretch itself outward as soon as the fleeing cock had jumped into her lap.  “Well hello there handsome,” her pussy purred seductively, “fancy meeting you here.”  Frederick, (the fleeing penis), although charmed by Theresa’s vagina (which, since he had hardened immediately in her presence, was difficult to deny) was more worried about his imminent capture and probable enslavement than consummation.  He whispered in a desperate, quiet voice, “please hide me quickly, somewhere, anywhere!” to which Theresa’s horny vagina said, “oh don’t you worry honey, I know the perfect place.” Jake and Theresa were married a week later.

 

 

{Epilogue, The Local Starbucks}

“You know that was a cop out?” said Dave.

“What do you mean?  How was that a copout?” replied Tom.

“The way you ended the story.  It was a cop out.”

“Well I thought I told it rather well.  I mean we’re talking about sentient genitalia and vampiric breasts, how much better of a job do you think you could have done?”

“I’m just saying you ended it abruptly.  It seemed like there was so much more to tell.”

“Of course, there is.  I told you that this particular Starbucks sits on some sort of spiritual nexus where weird stuff always happens.”

“Okay then, tell me some more.”

Hmm, let’s see.  There was a man who comes here from time to time named Mr. Garret.  He has a nose like Pinocchio.”

“You mean he has a big nose?”

“No, I mean that when he lies his nose gets bigger and longer.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.  You should see it.  The waitresses here come up to his table in micro mini-skirts, I’m pretty sure with no underwear on either and then they bend over in front of his face saying, “come on Mr. Garret, tell me a really big lie.”

“And does he?”

“Oh yeah, he tells them some whoppers.”

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The Tell-Tale Tail

For those of you who are fans of Edgar Allen Poe, or if not fans at least familiar with his work, then I think you will enjoy this short story titled “The Tell-Tale Tail.”  It is my homage to the master and is part of the collection of short, short stories I am working on at present called “Short Stories on Acid.”  I hope you enjoy it.

The Tell‑tale Tail

            On the day after his twentieth successful murder, Darren Ortiz began to feel a strange itching somewhere on his rear end.  Actually, this itching was located at the point at the base of the spine that converges with the top part of the butt cheeks and even though it was just an itch it was (after a few hours of unsuccessfully scratching it incessantly) becoming not only a nuisance but also an embarrassment…

            Two days after his twentieth successful murder Darren, (who was still suffering from that infernal itch between his butt cheeks) noticed that he must have scratched that region raw because there was not only a spot of blood seeping into his slacks from the area, but when he dropped his pants to take a look in the mirror, he saw that there seemed to be an inflammation there, most likely from his tailbone in its new sensitive state, rubbing against whatever he was sitting on. He resolved to make an appointment with his doctor as soon as he could and get it looked at.  After all, in his line of work he often had to sit stationary for long periods of time and a sore, itching and bleeding tail bone would just not do.  In today’s technologically savvy world the evidence left behind by his leaking tail bone could be the difference between success and a long prison term…

            Three days after his twentieth successful murder Darren knew he had to see the doctor ASAP.  His tailbone, although no longer itching and leaking, had now swollen up to the size of a golf ball and it was sore and rather hard.  He must have let it get infected and now he had developed a boil.  As soon as he had seen it he had made an appointment with his physician for the upcoming weekend which was the earliest available slot.  Despite the discomfort, he wasn’t concerned; boils usually burst on their own and he had no new clients at present that he needed to tend to…

On the fourth day after his twentieth successful murder, Darren began to have waking dreams about his last murder.  He was not the sort to be sentimental and indeed what made him so good at killing people was that he had no emotions whatsoever, he was as cold as ice, to use the cliché.  But suddenly, he had begun to dream about his twentieth murder and, the cute Pharaoh Hound that he had been forced to kill on the job.  The dog had not threatened him, had not raised any alarm and in fact liked him so much that it had followed him as he snuck through the house.  It seemed as if the Hound was rooting for him to kill its owner, especially since it sat there watching and wagging its tail as he choked the life out of its owner without making a single sound of protest.  Why he chose to shoot it when it tried to follow him out of the house, as if he were its true master, he still did not understand and now as he tried to flee these waking dreams about the dog, his boil had only grown larger…

            On the fifth day after his twentieth successful murder Darren Ortiz was sure that he was losing his mind.  He couldn’t get out of bed and was feverish and the boil between his butt cheeks had grown to gargantuan proportions.  When he was able to stagger out of bed to go get some much need water to drink and Tylenol for the throbbing pain in his ass, he turned to look at it in the mirror and was stunned to see that what had once been a boil now looked like an alien growth attached in between his hairy nether region. There was a yellow, pustulous head at the top, but the rest of it was no longer cone shaped but was instead now long and narrow, perhaps six inches long and worse, it was moving.  It seemed to have a mind of its own now and seeing this Darren fled back to his bedroom and crawled back into bed, hoping that somehow, he would make it through the next two days until his appointment with his doctor.  Why he didn’t at that point just go to the emergency room, we will never know, but those persons in Darren’s line of work usually shun any sort of attention so Darren remained in his house under his covers suffering through the torment…

            On the sixth day after his twentieth successful murder Darren did not wake up at all.  He was trapped inside a nightmare that really by most standards should not have been that frightening but given that it was the sad image of that Pharaoh Hound giving him puppy eyes repeatedly just before he shot it as if to say, “why?”  He would awake time and time again drenched in sweat and aching from his swollen rear end, only to be plunged back into the same nightmare once more.  And meanwhile the boil between his butt cheeks had begun to look suspiciously like a tail…

            On the seventh day after his twentieth successful murder Darren Ortiz awoke to the sight of a full-length tail poking out from between his legs.  When he realized exactly what it was, a tail of the exact size, color and texture of the beautiful Pharaoh Hound that he had unnecessarily and so callously killed, he got out of bed, called his doctor to cancel his appointment, got dressed and then drove carefully to the nearest police precinct, where he walked up to the duty officer and proceeded to confess to all his twenty murders, which up that moment had been completely unsolved.  And if anyone had been looking at Darren at the precise moment when he began to confess, they would have seen that Darren Ortiz, one of the most skilled assassins in the world, was wiggling his ass and shaking his hips as he would have had if he actually had a tail…

Ten Doors and Other Poems

Its done.  Its finished and its on amazon right now.  But I am also posting the entire manuscript here too.  I hope you enjoy it.  I experimented a little more in this one.

 Jean-Marc Iyeli Adeyemi Akerele

Ten Doors and Other Poems

 

 

Ten Doors

 

I was once asked to name

The most beautiful word or phrase that I thought I knew

But back in those halcyon days of youthful disregard

My knowledge was filtered through the lens of childish experience

The unfettered joy from the passions of my youth

But now that my Spring has passed into Summer

And now I have taken my first steps into the Autumn of my life

My eyes and ears have become dimmed and dysfunctional

While my heart has been tempered by practicality

I look back at my youthful answer and smile

For even then think I understood

(even if I did not act upon this knowledge)

That within all my indiscretions

All my miscalculations

All my missteps

And all the sad mantras I chanted to keep the fires of my passion

Stoked at high heat

I always knew that life stands upon a threshold

and my youth

Though potent

Was never the key

To open the way to that most beautiful of words

The phrase “cellar door” has often been held

As the most euphonic sound combination

But do they understand why?

Contained in that phrase is the most useful of all things

For in that phrase lies a word that describes a threshold;

A portal

An opening

An escape

A possibility

A closure

A new beginning

A hope

It was Life, even back then

 

Was this always the music that I heard

When I put an ear to one of its Ten Doors?

Where will this one lead me?

Where does it want me to go?
Those words which wait for me at every turn

In the silence that exists between my shallow heartbeats

In that deep line that separates my psyche from its epiphany

That lies just beyond the door

But where would I go even if my wounded hands would allow me

To reach out and grasp the handle

Because we all start off in life at a cellar door

Weak and softly shaking

Displaced by our first adventure

Into this world of unforgiving humanity

Chastened by the quickening flames of conception

And expelled into the dim light of this world

 

You and I know that there are no Ten Doors

The doors in life are myriad

And I know this

For I leave many of them in my wake.

 

But these doors, are they my own?

For the same wind I sense coming from within them has either tricked me

Or tempted me down paths I should not have explored

Yet through all the wisdom of my ancestors

When they passed through that final door

Their hearts, wild with hands now wholly healed

As they moved on to their forgiving rest

Yet in their wake now I find myself drawn

To their fire which modernity has almost put out

While here we remain standing before one door

But always filled with their dying embers

For in my heart I know that they yet call to me

from beyond what would have been the Tenth Door

If only Ten Doors existed

But there are no Ten Doors

This world has lost its meaning

Its long-legged vowels have snatched its beauty

What does the person who wants to step through feel

When that most beautiful of words no longer functions as a key?

I do not say it

But even still time and time again I walk through

Yielding to the pressure that this key unlocks

Knowing that the threshold may not lead to rest

Yet that word screams its defiance

For in this world it has great power

And for those who are defiant enough walk through doors

Without it

There is a strength to be gained

For that word will never lead me to a place of rest

I pass life’s roadblocks and then speed on through

Even as its dust blows on me from places that I will never see

For even though I know that this life does not have only Ten Doors

And still in my search for fate

I ask for a base ten number

To take me from here for my soul is dying

 

In my time I have travelled far on incomprehensible words

Propelled by the rejection of that cellar door

Sometimes I creep through the windows of the soul

Are they not portals too?

Violating the sanctity of another’s brief journey

Just to see what lies within

They eject me with their weeping and the insufferable silence

But sometimes necessity forces me to stay

Oh yes, I become the mimic

Seducing them unlocked with tears that fall

Like a quenching rain

Seeping through such doorways

Always invited yet never the guest

 

In the threshold of my ambition

I have found such lonely halls of nothingness

Yet with careful planning

I may yet build that ode to my family’s greatness

And if I do will my ancestor’s weep with me

Or will they open that final door?

For the world is weary of a soul such as mine–

Why will it not eject me?

And in my travels, I have opened many doors

Yet even with the great weapon of my ambition

That sweet word still haunts me

Though I have slain it at least twice already in my sad life

It originates from that place

That cellar door

Where once I stepped into this world of iniquities

I was held in my mother and father’s arms by that word

Is it the key to my final salvation

Or the key to my prison?

 

But those Ten Doors I saw

What are they?

Are they a figment, a fact, or a fragment?

A piece of a mythology from a former life

It is impossible to find them

Because life has a million more

Like 10 stars among the night sky’s millions

Uncharted, unknown, imaginary

But in my mind’s eye I voyage far away

Through time, temptation and transcendence

To finally touch their void

And as I stand in front of doors that cannot exist

I beg them to open

And life in its great mystery

Gives me a fateful push

So that I now stand on the other side of a great mystery

Refreshed by both my faith and disbelief

 

I inhale its fragrance, its quickness

Unbalanced by my presence

And though I am yet solid as silence

I feel that word slipping through the cracks to undo me

A hand clapping on its own

Yet knowing that it is no longer unique for there are two

I have entered a world

Where that word is its dark despot

Controlling the ebb and flow of a humanity in constant evolution

I am tainted, yes, by my frustrations

But through it all I must persevere and move on to next door

For although I am running from that potent word

That has followed me since I walked through the cellar door

I know that it wishes me no harm

Yet even still I yearn for simpler days when democracy ruled my psyche

And such an imperium could never have taken root within me

For hidden within my beauty was a wildness

That no dictator could rule

And life

Its greatest ally

Has shifted me from door to door

Until my head was reeling and soon I found myself

Unable to resist

 

Even as I yielded to its painful caresses

I called its name through that thin door

Trying one last time to escape it

Yet Love, that beautiful word, held me back and bade me listen

For as I pushed my fist in anger through that thinly veiled door

I heard what I had refused to listen to:

 

Through all my years of fleeing from door to door

Love spoke not of desperation, bondage, or obligation

For it was this word which preceded me through that cellar door

And stopped to pursued me since

At my mother’s breast, and in my father’s arms;

In my brother’s strength, and my sister’s embrace;

In my lover’s eyes and my best friends’ laughter

Love has followed me from a great distance

Striving to keep me safe from a world that never understood

And never could

That there are many more than Ten Doors in this world

But in the end

they all lead to the same place.

A place that we all call home

And home is where the heart it is

And Love, that most beautiful of words

Lives within our hearts.

 

 

A Cold and Frigid Alphabet

 

With such dark rhymes to frame me

In an indeterminate fate

That reeks with the stench of Gods and Men

And I, this quiet stranger

Who striving in this world

That insanity created

So alone, yet unafraid

Of the devils, the deceits and the feral false smiles

Which have wooed me to that endless farce

A celestial pantomime to be viewed from life’s darkest star

 

My sense of self has once again confounded me

With its strains of salty savagery

Its rhythmic pulsing with the blood of my sad sensibilities

And the flame of my strange passions burnt to a low ebb

Just as I seek that cold and frigid alphabet

To speak the words to clear the frost

That deadly ice which binds my heart

And lays my soul on ice

 

Is this the divinity that I have searched for?

This sinister hymn that lies by its very faith

Yet somehow through my tired observations

I can sense the strong paradox

That makes me, this sinner, very real

 

And for this now, I must be true

As the wings of my strange beliefs

Have raised me up to heights unseen

When all my desires point to this

This, the thing I most despise

 

While my cold words become a revelation

For no heat can erase the path they made

Upon the windows of a dozen souls

Frostbitten by my careless, hopeless grammar

Windburned by my ruthless syntax

 

But the fact is that these words are not so bleak

And the house that they built

Although built of ice

Although built of the cold and frigid alphabet

Of my melancholia

Yet sparkle like artic ice

And when they finally melt

they still give nourishment

For in truth they are pure water

 

And in this cold house that I have built

Am I really so cold?

For despite the wilderness, the desolation

At its heart lies a white fire

A paradox of battling elements

At whose center lies the secret to understanding

The cold and frigid alphabet

That has etched the stele of my life’s disappointments

 

 

Memory is a Balm

 

I would wake up

With our legs entwined

In perfect chaotic symmetry

A portrait of what lay beneath

Our passion that broke

The fragile, banal shell that we shed

When we left the mundane world behind

And entered a realm of our making

 

With clever words we kept them locked out

And bound ourselves closer

Yet such memories now are a poison

For they bind me with their sad reminiscences

 

I don’t feel your kisses on my neck

As I enter sleep

I don’t feel your fingers on my chest

Propelling me into wakefulness

 

For the world hated us

Envied us

And you and I never quite understood this

That their words could never have been

The fruits of truth

For in their eloquence

They spoke deceit

 

But memory is a balm

A soothing, cleansing relief

And in my mind’s eye I still awake

With our limbs entwined

In that chaotic symmetry

I still feel your kisses on my neck

And your fingers yet propel me back into wakefulness

Memory is balm

And through is healing gesture

I understand that I can kiss this memory

Forever

 

 

A Forgetful Sun

 

Here in this forgetful Sun

Which leaves us shivering and quiescent

Until the night returns

Where memory and desire

Comingle and coagulate

A bloody wound

That no device and no distance

Can close

Separated from life’s abstract requirements

In our search for answers

We have rekindled our connection

To the Akashic record

Giving substance to the smoke

Which was our thoughts

So elusive, so divine

 

Who Am I?

 

Once I was I was free

Kept far from life’s disappointments

By the surging breath of my joyous song

That I kept turned on within me

A fierce inner light

Whose bright trust tamed the darkness that lurked outside

 

In my mind I climbed the crimson sun

And trekked the barren landscape of the moon

I once chased away an azure sky

For it was jealous that there was no blue in me

And I refused to contemplate its worth

 

I enriched myself with Nature’s secrets

By tonguing the black earth

Its mass underneath me as I lay prostrate devouring

Was yet nothing but a light construct of air

 

I have since broken any philosophical ties which once held me

The existential bonds of strange truths

Whose iron links once tried to bow my back

Yet they could never force me downward

Into that dismal dusty ground

Where lie the words of hypocrites

Who know not who they are

But instead transform themselves with each deceit

 

Yet the beauty of life’s total submission into my heart

Never supplanted the perfect picture of all that is me

That complex and dreadful design

That lurks in the sublime silence which is my person

And I hold the world in an unspeakable contempt

For it would change me if it could

 

Yet my silence is pregnant with possibility

Like a kiss

That dark despot of passion

Who dictates the when and where

Of the sad frustrations it predicts

Which fall upon weary shoulders untrained

 

But mine is not some fragile carapace that I built willfully

I am steeled by words granted by the mouth of the Creatrix

These words, written with a trembling hand

Trace an itinerary

Making slight corrections in the labyrinth path

That I call myself

 

I am armored with a sweet and desperate logic

Whose scattered elements I play with

As a child plays enthusiastically

Even with a broken toy

Who am I, I ask myself daily

For I must inhabit this empty shell

And with a soldier’s stoicism

I confront the equation

This question

And leave it for the higher ups to answer for me.

 

 

Midnight Tides

 

I have risen with indifference

Through the twin worlds

That is life’s duality

A purpose that pierces every part of creation so petulantly

 

The shadows of my intellect

Have made me unrecognizable

And the mirror which lies between us

Has become so much more that just a half-witted mimic

Which gropes me rudely with its stare

But can never find the release it seeks

 

Yet in its walls

That quicksilver barrier

There is a midnight tide which arises

And I find that looking at it

I am no longer facing myself

 

In truth, although I am stand before it

I do little more than pout with my back turned on eternity

 

 

The Question and the Answer

 

Bored by the many vexations

Of tiny insignificant men and women

My heart has become a query

That reflects what the answer reveals

These questions and answers have flogged me raw

With a violent viscosity

That forces me to be still

For such sorrow clings to me

As I see that the world itself has no answers

 

 

Haiku for Heather

 

Yes, in Africa

We clip false warriors’ wings

And make them house pets

 

 

Not Dead but Dreaming

 

My final death lies here

The widespread, tiny and malignant death

Of a man deeply afflicted by life

Its proof is the weeping of my animals

The belligerence of the grey sea

And the funereal tones in which the wind now howls

A tribute to a man who although is dead

Still dreams of his final rest

 

The Scent of a Woman

 

When I, who was ignorant

Of that dark sweetness which existed

In nights of fierce passion

I was certain that the world

Was completely made up of women

Placed in my path for me to use

Coaxed into my bedchambers

By my many practiced speeches

 

Yet my eyes have since been cleansed of this fallacy

By the baptism of experience

In the waters that a gentle Goddess created

To enlighten the misogyny of the world of men

 

My various selves were self-denying

Even while Her eyes were understanding

And Her splendid lips so full of compassion

 

There are only three things worthy of a man’s attention:

The vibrancy of a youthful woman

The full figure of a women in her third trimester

And the crinkled laugh lines of a grey-haired matron

As she laughs at our folly

 

 

Even the Most Faithful Doubt

 

As doubt eases its way into my heart

To damage my belief

The certainty that was my part

Now broken by my disbelief

No comfort in the faith I held

No sanctions to unfold

No purpose for such truths upheld

No actions come forth bold

Our lives were never ours to spend

We know that they are brief

Poor comfort that these thoughts portend

Unmasking what’s beneath

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who am I?

My most recent nbook of poetry is finally done.  I will doing final proofs today before sending it to the publisher.  I thought I would post one more poem from the collection since next month I am going to focvus on writing about current affairs, poliics history etc as I have done in the past.  So enjoy.  It is called WHO AM I?  I’ll let everone know when then complete book “Ten Doors and Other Poems” is available on amazon.

 

Who Am I?

 

Once I was I was free

Kept far from life’s disappointments

By the surging breath of my joyous song

That I kept turned on within me

A fierce inner light

Whose bright trust tamed the darkness that lurked outside

 

In my mind I climbed the crimson sun

And trekked the barren landscape of the moon

I once chased away an azure sky

For it was jealous that there was no blue in me

And I refused to contemplate its worth

 

I enriched myself with Nature’s secrets

By tonguing the black earth

Its mass underneath me as I lay prostrate devouring

Was yet nothing but a light construct of air

 

I have since broken any philosophical ties which once held me

The existential bonds of strange truths

Whose iron links once tried to bow my back

Yet they could never force me downward

Into that dismal dusty ground

Where lie the words of hypocrites

Who know not who they are

But instead transform themselves with each deceit

 

Yet the beauty of life’s total submission into my heart

Never supplanted the perfect picture of all that is me

That complex and dreadful design

That lurks in the sublime silence which is my person

And I hold the world in an unspeakable contempt

For it would change me if it could

 

Yet my silence is pregnant with possibility

Like a kiss

That dark despot of passion

Who dictates the when and where

Of the sad frustrations it predicts

Which fall upon weary shoulders untrained

 

But mine is not some fragile carapace that I built willfully

I am steeled by words granted by the mouth of the Creatrix

These words, written with a trembling hand

Trace an itinerary

Making slight corrections in the labyrinth path

That I call myself

 

I am armored with a sweet and desperate logic

Whose scattered elements I play with

As a child plays enthusiastically

Even with a broken toy

Who am I, I ask myself daily

For I must inhabit this empty shell

And with a soldier’s stoicism

I confront the equation

This question

And leave it for the higher ups to answer for me.

Memory is a Balm

This is the third poem in my new soon to be published latest collection of poems called “Ten Doors”  This poem is called “Memory is a Balm” and is a lot less depressing than the last one I posted here, “A Cold and Frigid Alphabet.”  I was feeling some kind of way when I wrote that one, but what can I say>  My work all contain a piece of me so they will reflect me and whatever is going with me.  And if you can’t tell I;ll tell you….I’m lonely.  I hope you enjoy it more soon to come.

 

Memory is a Balm

 

I would wake up

With our legs entwined

In perfect chaotic symmetry

A portrait of what lay beneath

Our passion that broke

The fragile, banal shell that we shed

When we left the mundane world behind

And entered a realm of our making

 

With clever words we kept them locked out

And bound ourselves closer

Yet such memories now are a poison

For they bind me with their sad reminiscences

 

I don’t feel your kisses on my neck

As I enter sleep

I don’t feel your fingers on my chest

Propelling me into wakefulness

 

For the world hated us

Envied us

And you and I never quite understood this

That their words could never have been

The fruits of truth

For in their eloquence

They spoke deceit

 

But memory is a balm

A soothing, cleansing relief

And in my mind’s eye I still awake

With our limbs entwined

In that chaotic symmetry

I still feel your kisses on my neck

And your fingers yet propel me back into wakefulness

Memory is balm

And through is healing gesture

I understand that I can kiss this memory

Forever

A Cold and Frigid Alphabet

This is the second poem in a new collection I am working on now titled, “Ten Doors.”  I already posted the title poem, now here is the next one.  It’s called “A Cold and Frigid Alphabet.”  I hope you enjoy it.

 

A Cold and Frigid Alphabet 

With such dark rhymes to frame me

In an indeterminate fate

That reeks with the stench of Gods and Men

And I, this quiet stranger

Who striving in this world

That insanity created

So alone, yet unafraid

Of the devils, the deceits and the feral false smiles

Which have wooed me to that endless farce

A celestial pantomime to be viewed from life’s darkest star

 

My sense of self has once again confounded me

With its strains of salty savagery

Its rhythmic pulsing with the blood of my sad sensibilities

And the flame of my strange passions burnt to a low ebb

Just as I seek that cold and frigid alphabet

To speak the words to clear the frost

That deadly ice which binds my heart

And lays my soul on ice

 

Is this the divinity that I have searched for?

This sinister hymn that lies by its very faith

Yet somehow through my tired observations

I can sense the strong paradox

That makes me, this sinner, very real

 

And for this now, I must be true

As the wings of my strange beliefs

Have raised me up to heights unseen

When all my desires point to this

This, the thing I most despise

 

While my cold words become a revelation

For no heat can erase the path they made

Upon the windows of a dozen souls

Frostbitten by my careless, hopeless grammar

Windburned by my ruthless syntax

 

But the fact is that these words are not so bleak

And the house that they built

Although built of ice

Although built of the cold and frigid alphabet

Of my melancholia

Yet sparkle like artic ice

And when they finally melt

they still give nourishment

For in truth they are pure water

 

And in this cold house that I have built

Am I really so cold?

For despite the wilderness, the desolation

At its heart lies a white fire

A paradox of battling elements

At whose center lies the secret to understanding

This cold and frigid alphabet

That has etched the stele of my life’s disappointments

Ten Doors

Its been a while since I posted anything because I felt I needed to shift my focus back to my first love, which is poetry.  The following poem is called Ten Doors and is the titular work in a new book of poetry I am working on now.  I hope you enjoy it.  I’ll post the rest of the poems in the collection as they are born.

Ten Doors

I was once asked to name

The most beautiful word or phrase that I thought I knew

But back in those halcyon days of youthful disregard

My knowledge was filtered through the lens of childish experience

The unfettered joy from the passions of my youth

But now that my Spring has passed into Summer

And now I have taken my first steps into the Autumn of my life

My eyes and ears have become dimmed and dysfunctional

While my heart has been tempered by practicality

I look back at my youthful answer and smile

For even then think I understood

(even if I did not act upon this knowledge)

That within all my indiscretions

All my miscalculations

All my missteps

And all the sad mantras I chanted to keep the fires of my passion

Stoked at high heat

I always knew that life stands upon a threshold

and my youth

Though potent

Was never the key

To open the way to that most beautiful of words

The phrase “cellar door” has often been held

As the most euphonic sound combination

But do they understand why?

Contained in that phrase is the most useful of all things

For in that phrase lies a word that describes a threshold;

A portal

An opening

An escape

A possibility

A closure

A new beginning

A hope

It was Life, even back then

 

Was this always the music that I heard

When I put an ear to one of its Ten Doors?

 

Where will this one lead me?

Where does it want me to go?
Those words which wait for me at every turn

In the silence that exists between my shallow heartbeats

In that deep line that separates my psyche from its epiphany

That lies just beyond the door

But where would I go even if my wounded hands would allow me

To reach out and grasp the handle

Because we all start off in life at a cellar door

Weak and softly shaking

Displaced by our first adventure

Into this world of unforgiving humanity

Chastened by the quickening flames of conception

And expelled into the dim light of this world

 

You and I know that there are no Ten Doors

The doors in life are myriad

And I know this

For I leave many of them in my wake.

 

But these doors, are they my own?

For the same wind I sense coming from within them has either tricked me

Or tempted me down paths I should not have explored

Yet through all the wisdom of my ancestors

When they passed through that final door

Their hearts, wild with hands now wholly healed

As they moved on to their forgiving rest

Yet in their wake now I find myself drawn

To their fire which modernity has almost put out

While here we remain standing before one door

But at all times filled with their dying embers

For in my heart I know that they yet call to me

from beyond what would have been the Tenth Door

If only Ten Doors existed

But there are no Ten Doors

This world has lost its meaning

Its long-legged vowels have snatched its beauty

What does the person who wants to step through feel

When that most beautiful of words no longer functions as a key?

I do not say it

But even still time and time again I walk through

Yielding to the pressure that this key unlocks

Knowing that the threshold may not lead to rest

Yet that word screams its defiance

For in this world it has great power

And for those who are defiant enough walk through doors

Without it

There is a strength to be gained

For that word will never lead me to a place of rest

I pass life’s roadblocks and then speed on through

Even as its dust blows on me from places that I will never see

For even though I know that this life does not have only Ten Doors

And still in my search for fate

I ask for a base ten number

To take me from here for my soul is dying

 

In my time I have travelled far on incomprehensible words

Propelled by the rejection of that cellar door

Sometimes I creep through the windows of the soul

Are they not portals too?

Violating the sanctity of another’s brief journey

Just to see what lies within

They eject me with their weeping and the insufferable silence

But sometimes necessity forces me to stay

Oh yes, I become the mimic

Seducing them unlocked with tears that fall

Like a quenching rain

Seeping through such doorways

Always invited yet never the guest

 

In the threshold of my ambition

I have found such lonely halls of nothingness

Yet with careful planning

I may yet build that ode to my family’s greatness

And if I do will my ancestor’s weep with me

Or will they open that final door?

For the world is weary of a soul such as mine–

Why will it not eject me?

And in my travels, I have opened many doors

Yet even with the great weapon of my ambition

That sweet word still haunts me

Though I have slain it at least twice already in my sad life

It originates from that place

That cellar door

Where once I stepped into this world of iniquities

I was held in my mother and father’s arms by that word

Is it the key to my final salvation

Or the key to my prison?

 

But those Ten Doors I saw

What are they?

Are they a figment, a fact, or a fragment?

A piece of a mythology from a former life

It is impossible to find them

Because life has a million more

Like 10 stars among the night sky’s millions

Uncharted, unknown, imaginary

But in my mind’s eye I voyage far away

Through time, temptation and transcendence

To finally touch their void

And as I stand in front of doors that cannot exist

I beg them to open

And life in its great mystery

Gives me a fateful push

So that I now stand on the other side of a great mystery

Refreshed by both my faith and disbelief

 

I inhale its fragrance, its quickness

Unbalanced by my presence

And though I am yet solid as silence

I feel that word slipping through the cracks to undo me

A hand clapping on its own

Yet knowing that it is no longer unique for there are two

I have entered a world

Where that word is its dark despot

Controlling the ebb and flow of a humanity in constant evolution

I am tainted, yes, by my frustrations

But through it all I must persevere and move on to next door

For although I am running from that potent word

That has followed me since I walked through the cellar door

I know that it wishes me no harm

Yet even still I yearn for simpler days when democracy ruled my psyche

And such an imperium could never have taken root within me

For hidden within my beauty was a wildness

That no dictator could rule

And life

Its greatest ally

Has shifted me from door to door

Until my head was reeling and soon I found myself

Unable to resist

 

Even as I yielded to its painful caresses

I called its name through that thin door

Trying one last time to escape it

Yet Love, that beautiful word, held me back and bade me listen

For as I pushed my fist in anger through that thinly veiled door

I heard what I had refused to listen to:

 

Through all my years of fleeing from door to door

Love spoke not of desperation, bondage, or obligation

For it was this word which preceded me through that cellar door

And stopped to pursued me since

At my mother’s breast, and in my father’s arms;

In my brother’s strength, and my sister’s embrace;

In my lover’s eyes and my best friends’ laughter

Love has followed me from a great distance

Striving to keep me safe from a world that never understood

And never could

That there are many more than Ten Doors in this world

But in the end

they all lead to the same place.

A place that we all call home

And home is where the heart it is

And Love, that most beautiful of words

Lives within our hearts.