When you tried to make me watch an intense documentary and I didn't feel like it and it became an intellectual debate so I went and wrote a poem

feel like i confronted a whole lot of traumatising shit for a long time
feel like i have paid close attention to
and been rendered distraught by
the suffering in the world
the institutionalised issues that tie the yoke
and fear, oh our fears.

I do not wish to act from that place
from the fear of everything falling apart
I do not wish to be subjected to a barrage of information that I know enough of
 know that my decisions affect everything
  know that small actions have impact

I wish to learn, yes
I wish to learn more all the time
and be a better person

I never assume that I will be perfect
or that I will even almost reach the mark
but I try

and within that
I try to practice forgiveness
for myself when I am lost or forsaken
for my foibles and mistakes
for everyone who continues, ignorant
for all the perpetuators of pain and suffering and damage
blind or otherwise

so I try to be nourishing
to resist
to fight
via nourishment
and the ripple effects of this practice are broader than I can know

Though it is never enough,
Anything is enough.
Nothing is not affected -
and everything stays the same.

i know there are problems, those problems are countless, i know the ways to combat them are many and varied.
i know there are resistances in me to face my unconscious biases
and resistances to feeding unconscious identity bolsters

I don’t wish to harden your identity any further,
i wish to share some of the ocean with you
that beauty and yielding grace -
yeah i get a little briny sometimes
but i’m trying
to practice forgiveness
and lose bitterness more all the time

I am far more sensitive than I was
and stronger than I have ever been
because of that

smothered and helpless
so much kept so far away
I am kept far away
every voice invasive and alien
unwelcome
all enjoyment, empty
I tried to fill it in
food and noise and distraction
just amplified the shutdown
it breaks through the hardened scab
oxygen and pain come
flooding

some void unrepresented
gone unnamed and accumulated
depth enough to threaten submersion, 
permanent

the masochistic urge turns again
a subtle terror constant
fleshy form distorting

(searching for an outer emptiness to match this inner

any stimuli akin to skin peeler)

your poor body, so long disregarded -
ignorance, wilfully scarred

can't be rid of it

it must be opened and scoured, 
the rotten edges scraped clean,
breath filling the space
it's so easy to push away
but I cannot

I do not want any of this right now.

No choice but to be subjected
to your inner chaos.
No options for delay now that it is there.


They witness 
so it can stay open. That is all.
The rest - 
the wounded physician's work.
All the best.

This culture is one of suffocation
And placation
Fear torn divisions 
Indignation
Incarceration
Demonization
What we had once has been crushed
So we douse our bodies with the dust 
And spread information
Instigate independent thought
Use the tools that trap to break the bars
It will not stay down.
Spirit is rising up.
The dead are shining down.
Carry the fire on. 

So we douse our bodies with ash
To burn it burn it down
With the fire
With the fire
To burn
It
Down
With the fire
With the fire
To throw it, throw it down, throw down
into the fire

The concept of separation
The fear of not belonging
A structure bent and breaking
Ready for the fire

We are all dispossessed.
Our dead are kept away.
But we listen and will try
To learn how to burn
With the fire.
With the fire.

revelling in the unravelling

I have not been using this blog that much lately... minimal posts in the last few years. I started to feel like it was very self-indulgent, and I never shared it about with people because it was always an expulsion into the ether, just to get stuff out so it wasn't whirling around in me or in my books or documents folder - it was freed into the world. Without expectations. 

But I realize that act has allowed me to feel safe within a space - safe and vulnerable simultaneously, safe to be vulnerable and to fuck up and to not make sense all the time. To be self-indulgent, to be lost, to be fucking confused and to post shit poems and good ones and dreams and rants and all in between. No one was going to read it, but it was still exposed and free. 

I think I might be okay with it now though. I have plenty of words to say and if they all happen to be in the context of this messed up and dark and ridiculous blog of mine, well, so be it. No need to hide anything. I am a human. I have grown, and in this age where so much of our lives are documented (more curse than blessing I feel), I won't hesitate anymore to let that be seen. Fuck it. Why think too hard, why feel insecure? Too many other areas where I have to be so careful and thoughtful and meter my expressions. Here it is just whatever. I like that, it is easy. I'm not going to take myself too seriously. Life's too short for that sort of shit.

So... here is a new poem.

***

The whole thing is a bit fucking hard you know

not dying and still going and trying to make a thing out of all the ness

flailing and breathing and sometimes getting waterlogged and sluggish

pouring out yourself and leaving your dreams in a small patch of drying mud

on the bank of the reservoir

the hums and vibrations of the music you could make just ghosting about in your heart and

in other people's ears

waiting to be born

swimming about in the void in anticipation

little souls bodiless

jostling to be illuminated

to be vessel-ified

so they can walk among the living at long last

just to find that the whole thing

is primarily constructed of aching and yearning and clawing

interspersed with moments of gold

some chemical compilation allowing the exposition of time and our worlds curling out all around

like a carpet unrolled

out

and off a cliff

so mid air is the same flailing we make when drowning

only faster

the outer world rushes and shoves us

the inner does the same

only slower

until we just follow some path that calls and could be maybe the 'right' one

stumble out onto gravel that cuts up our feet and mud that slows us and we stray

regardless of which way

we might go

some roots stretch below and above we try our best to climb to

some fruit that looks so plump and why can't it just be in our hands right now

why can't that juice just run down the chin joyously

instantly

instead of having to stretch and slip and watch as they rot and drop

why does the perception persist that one branch reaching is better than another

or that one unfurling is more divine

or that one river is more valid than another

that nature has intention is absurd

that our souls draw us onwards is a certainty but certainly no one knows how

though we futile try to clarify our whole damned limitless lives

only clamped tight and stemmed the flow along the dendrite by the mortal uncoiling

the spoiling of truth's vine

the sunshine was too hot,

the river too dry

the rains come too fast and

the roots, exposed, died

rotted from the inside

but songs get written anyway

and recordings get made

and they end up in our ears and seep down through the veins even when the sky is bleached and our eyes blind

our dreams touch something fresh and alive and cool beneath the surface dust

the crust is only as thick as the apple's skin

not even

and that wellspring may seem untouched but we drink deep sometimes

when something sings

that sorrow and hope hydrating dried up cells and

rejuvenating without reason

so purposelessness has its own surge of life

and suffering has its seasons

and laughter has its bright lies so shiny in the night

lifts us up in the face of not much you know

not much at all shielding us from the void

shimmering shapes of souls awaiting transportation

on the other side

a supple and thin skin dividing the material from the divine

and try as we might

there is no breaching that line

only in that moment

where we are born or where we die

a single split second glimpse before we get redefined

and forget until the next time

the same cycle over and over the same patterns untwined

revelling in the unravelling is all we can try

make a sound into the empty

listen deep and dream

***

I try not to write poems about you.
Or about my feelings for you.
I think it would make you uncomfortable, or it would be cheesy and not say what I want succinctly enough.

But here I am. This warm air full of pre-storm
coaxing my sensitivity outwards.
Mate - if it makes you feel strange, that's okay.

If it scares the shit out of you - 
good.

I feel that too.

If it stops you from leaping into the void,
though - 
if that fear cripples you
and you never grow into willingness -
if you pause on the outskirts of pain and 
sit without reaching to know the wild that lives and dies on the other side of your threshold,
if you burrow deep into the snow - 
that's okay; do what you will.

Though,


the will
that flickers bright and deep in your eyes,
arcs, glinting, from your dynamic expression -

that will yearns, love. It reaches, 
from the base of your sternum it uncoils, grows, 
its maw wide and sight blind, 
wanting food.
It needs a feast. Of blood, fear, pain, desire.
It needs freedom to flourish, claw, emaciate and shrivel to the brink of oblivion -
it will not tolerate to be held stale and grey and neutral.


Taste the depth
when deepdrinking
from sacred vessel.

That flavour is known,
blood is magnetized to it,
danger and wonder is buried
within a complex cassoulette.

And coiled within you is that 
visceral joy
that you are so ready to withdraw from.

That is okay.

Whatever form
finds its food

whatever flavour strains back at you, 
arched and warm or
tepid and taciturn

that is up to you, you know, that old thing - 
do what you will.


And I will
remember
from time to time,
the hunger
and the bared-teeth truth; 
an unabashed fire fuelled by breath and flesh

whatever you choose

That is okay, too. I love you. 






Last night I dreamt I was trying to catch a strange, wide snake that had escaped in a house where I was staying. I had provoked it earlier. It went into the master bedroom, then back out. It came into the kitchen where [we] were all seated around the table - [we] got up, tried to find out a way to catch it. I came back with 2 brooms, another broom had been seized to attempt some sort of control method. It was irritated, it grew wider and almost like the shape of a cat. As I tried to hit/direct/catch it, grabbing it with two hands(?), it bit me. Maybe 4-6 times. On the hands and lower arms. Snake punctures, I knew I was in danger but I also knew I would be okay - some medicine, or doctor, or something was close enough by. I think I tried to break its neck, but it wouldn't work. It survived(?), we (saved it?) and put it somewhere 'safe'. I was lucid. Can't remember what happened next though.

a capitalization

so it appears, I am functioning better than I ever have
maybe

I am doing things, and stuff
and all the time, not just on occasion
and I am able to keep my self together even in the stormiest of shits
only just sometimes sure but at least
it happens

what happens
when my heart is a tumult tin
and the racket becomes more than din
and the bashing pushes me crashing out over the edge of my own skin finally again
when I have come so far
is it really further to fall?

why am I contemplating this at all?

why am I now finally capitalizing my self
after so many many years of lower case i
lowered eyes
just in case
some one met my gaze and searched for truth?

well now I guess I want to meet that truth in me just as easily as I search for it in you
me
hey I want to know I am really more than curious it is a compulsion it is a sixty foot wave
rumbling deeper and heavier than any sound humans could shuddering make

stand in front of me or lie just beside looking in to that black pit of nothing where the totality of consciousness resides
and I will return that gaze
capitalize

so good job and pat on the back there holding your shit together juj. you did good, you are doing good. yeah, sure you're procrastinating via poetry but it's valid in the scheme of things. this sort of stuff means more and means less in the chaos of information being ricocheted off every conceivable surface these glorious days
and in these glorious times
I am a curious creature still searching

let's hope that even with all this functionality, it never leaves me still.
wonder unceasingly is my will

Tell yourself
you're worthy tell
yourself
you're worthy tell
yourself
you're worthy tell
yourself I love you and
you say
I love you too

It's you & me girl
free & heavy
it's you & me my lady
I will hold you and read to you
while you fall asleep
it's you & me baby
don't be afraid
I've got you

Been falling in love
but misguidedly.
When it's you & me
baby the love I need is a closed circuit system
nothing purer or securer
yes love in me,
c'mon my sweet -
I'll take you to the beach
and we can be anything we wanna be

we can be lonely
and free
'cause we're alone together and
we don't need
anything

you're worthy
tell yourself
you're worthy
tell yourself you're
worthy tell yourself
I love you, girl.

Well I love you too,
and we can die together.
I know they say we all die alone but
you've got me
always
we don't need anything
you're worthy
we don't need anything
I love you
we'll get through it together
you're worthy