Blinding white, cloth upon your being,
Blinding white, the garment that you're wearing,
Inside, my eyes that unclothe your innermost feeling,
And watch your twisted being,
Snow upon the driveway,
And blood staining the path,
That leads you to this place,
Bottled up darling,
Listened to by yon wasted scoundrel,
Beer's unblemished honest counsel,
Listen to each convoluted thought,
drive through all the battle's that you've fought,
you're tired lovely innocent being,
You.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
HUMAN
It was late evening. And I watched the sullen grass tainted with the demise of the setting sun. an unfathomable fog stood in the path that obscured vision from the wall. And with the little light that pursuaded the dark to stay awhile and hold its sway over the transient interjection of dusk, I felt the unearthly breath of the night, willing its decision upon those who inhabited the structure. If the structure seemed any more like a fold that would enclose its keepers in safe custody, save this forlorn being warming the place by an illumination of a portrait and a table overlaid with books and a contraption of ink.
I sat. In the interlude of the busy day, engrossed in witnessing the fading light, a catharsis that eased the burden of being bound to the hapless activity that chained me to my desk. And what remained towards the close of day was the image of a white wall(if any part of it conformed to the colour) and ivy upon its body, serpentining its way upon the edge of concrete earth while letting its arms enshroud the lower sloping stretches of white Calcium. But now there was the blacknesss. Realization shot through my senses with the opposing realities in my brain and I got up from my chair and walked towards the table that stood in the far corner of the room, facing a door.
Supper was laid on it; soup and pieces of buttered bread with a loaf of meat. Sullen, as the day had been, sullen was the mien that my mind wore and so, sullen was my appetite.
If the soup had been less insipid, the bread would have been washed down with vigour. But my gastronomic reaction to food reflected its absolute disappointment of the weather, within and without.
If I, by means of being absorbed in the deed that documents every instance of action or inaction (pardon my use of the contradiction) have failed to impress upon lyou the situation of my mind, the following lines of ink will guide you.
Having been warned of my inattention to my work(which involved resecting and anastomosing pieces of living flesh in an incised man), I was ordered rest following a visit by a doctor of the mind.
His tales of whether voices resounded every time I walked or talked or footsteps followed my own while I went about my agenda or hushed whispers threatened my safety and my life while I stood about at street corners or the theater, resembled what I’d be haunted by and document them likewise, he advised the resolution of this disordered state. This ‘disoriented state’ seemed to be the complaint of only the doctor and not of those who accompanied me. In the purest deduction of any calulation that my senses would offer through exertion, they’d reject any notion that would breach my steadfast state of health.
Anne, certainly would not indent my apparent sense of well being by incising it with an accusation. She’d play with her ball in the innermost recesses of the morgue while I worked in the years before I arrived here. Nor would her mother who watched me while I bathed within the closed doors in the one-roomed apartment that once housed me.
Justin would cycle his way through the pathways of the garden within the hospital. Though he wasn’t a doctor like any of us. He wouldn’t find fault; nor would robert, who stood by the clock at one and tell me what the schedule tomorrow would be. I’d find it admissable to consider an ineffectual diagnosis of the doctor, since a statistical proof would discount the validity of every diagnosis seem plausible and absolute.
I sat, staring at the glass with which water held its ground, static, with walls that permitted an equal gaze from within it. The day seemed tiring to my reposing bones, which seemed to be the result of gross inactivity.
It was then that a momentary lapse of my attention brought into my field of sensory consideration that another human inhabited this very same room.
I heard the rustling of corduroy, and a gentle whistle that seemed to emenate from one of the appendages of this very same apartment. My weary legs became taut with excitement at this preturbed turn of events.
On entering the bedroom, I enquired ; using the notation normally used to greet another person through the gramaphone. I was met was met with silence; and the rustle of corduroy.
And the gentle whistle.
“where are you?”
Silence.
“here” came the reply and I, jumped at the proximity to which I was met by the monosyllable. I swung around to see this man, sitting atop a cupboard, nay, slouching atop it, a coat of dirty brown and a tie beneath a visage that spoke of scrawniness and anointed with dishevelled hair. He looked at me through those leafy brown eyes and emoted factors of seeming intelligence as well as a fayn image of downtroddeness.
“unreasoning” he said, “are you of having been confined to this empty fold where the only friends of yours, speak to you alone”.
I made my way to the head of my bed and rested my aching back on the sliced oak to be at ease with the stranger who had stealthily made his way into my home.
“you do realize that robert bears free will to direct5 any part of your life that seems appropriate to him” he said” and all those other friends of yours bear more contempt of you than good willing”
“the other friends of mine?,” I replied , “are whom?”
“justin, anne and her mother”
Taken aback at his presumable knowledge of my state of affairs, I withheld speaking another word. Unitlli brought myself to consider that there were people that got wind of my state of being.
This stranger being one of them.
“and what may be your name?” I asked him.
“william” he replied.
“how well do you identify the objectives of my acquaintences, if they tend to reveal their form to me, and me alone? How well do you claim to know their names, when I’ve only revealed them to the Doctor who visits me every fortnight?”
“I’ve been through the barrage of unknown faces and infinite questions” william told me, “of winding passageways though arriving at one concluding decision”. I know the woman who watches you batheing, the man who inappropriately moves through corridors of your hospital when he is unqualified to attempt your profession and robert who questions every one of your actions, during the day, the day before, and every week beyond that”
“I know you”.
I looked away. Alarmed and mildly pleased that a stranger knew me so well and knocked at the doors of my supposed tainted perception of reality.
“what do I do?” I let myself say, surrendering to the advice of this man.
“the neuroleptic” he said.
“what?”
“the pills,” he said, gesturing to the bottle at the side of the bed atop a desk, “you’ve been prescribed, are to be consumed every moment you find that he voices from those people drive you further into malady”
“what will become of me,” I said, inquisitive about how notions of insecurity would breach periodic moments of calculated action.
“that,” william replied, as he got off the cupboard, thrusting his torso, and landed on his feet on the ground beneath, “is a question, I should ask myself”
He then wandered out of the bedroom and into a recess that occupied the far end of the room.
My eyes squinted at the bottle of pills that lay behind the lantern by the side of the bed. Fueled by the advice of this unknown man, and resolute to end my seeming indecisiveness, I stretched out, opened the bottle and devoured 3 of those blue pills. I then lay in bed untill the darkness of my eyelids brought me relief.
And sleep.
And in the sleep that wrought its way into my blighted consciousness, I saw the forms that gave me company during the times I stayed awake. Each walked across, mumbling how they’d been shunned by me, or my mannerism, that had changed along the course of this dream. Anne held her little teddy close to her bosom and stuck close to her mother, her eyes misty with tears. Justin slammed the door fo the room I was residing in, and walked outside. Roberst sat in the chair in front of me, and slowly faded as my eyelids blanched with daylight.
With daylight.
And with daylight, I awoke and opened the door to the corridor that led me to the apartment’s lobby.
The woman with the mopstick, looked at me wide eyed and tarried the course of her housework. The chimney sweeper almost stumbled on his broom as he witnessed a change in my demanour.
“sir, you look better,” he told me.
I merely smiled at him and regarded his observation with gratitude and asked him if he saw a person called william, who walked into my apartment last evening.
“no sir” he said.
I described the stranger to him, dishevelled hair, dirty brown coat, black boots…
“no sir, “ he said.
I noted his response with an queer understanding nod and opened the gate to wake into daylight.
My daylight.
I sat. In the interlude of the busy day, engrossed in witnessing the fading light, a catharsis that eased the burden of being bound to the hapless activity that chained me to my desk. And what remained towards the close of day was the image of a white wall(if any part of it conformed to the colour) and ivy upon its body, serpentining its way upon the edge of concrete earth while letting its arms enshroud the lower sloping stretches of white Calcium. But now there was the blacknesss. Realization shot through my senses with the opposing realities in my brain and I got up from my chair and walked towards the table that stood in the far corner of the room, facing a door.
Supper was laid on it; soup and pieces of buttered bread with a loaf of meat. Sullen, as the day had been, sullen was the mien that my mind wore and so, sullen was my appetite.
If the soup had been less insipid, the bread would have been washed down with vigour. But my gastronomic reaction to food reflected its absolute disappointment of the weather, within and without.
If I, by means of being absorbed in the deed that documents every instance of action or inaction (pardon my use of the contradiction) have failed to impress upon lyou the situation of my mind, the following lines of ink will guide you.
Having been warned of my inattention to my work(which involved resecting and anastomosing pieces of living flesh in an incised man), I was ordered rest following a visit by a doctor of the mind.
His tales of whether voices resounded every time I walked or talked or footsteps followed my own while I went about my agenda or hushed whispers threatened my safety and my life while I stood about at street corners or the theater, resembled what I’d be haunted by and document them likewise, he advised the resolution of this disordered state. This ‘disoriented state’ seemed to be the complaint of only the doctor and not of those who accompanied me. In the purest deduction of any calulation that my senses would offer through exertion, they’d reject any notion that would breach my steadfast state of health.
Anne, certainly would not indent my apparent sense of well being by incising it with an accusation. She’d play with her ball in the innermost recesses of the morgue while I worked in the years before I arrived here. Nor would her mother who watched me while I bathed within the closed doors in the one-roomed apartment that once housed me.
Justin would cycle his way through the pathways of the garden within the hospital. Though he wasn’t a doctor like any of us. He wouldn’t find fault; nor would robert, who stood by the clock at one and tell me what the schedule tomorrow would be. I’d find it admissable to consider an ineffectual diagnosis of the doctor, since a statistical proof would discount the validity of every diagnosis seem plausible and absolute.
I sat, staring at the glass with which water held its ground, static, with walls that permitted an equal gaze from within it. The day seemed tiring to my reposing bones, which seemed to be the result of gross inactivity.
It was then that a momentary lapse of my attention brought into my field of sensory consideration that another human inhabited this very same room.
I heard the rustling of corduroy, and a gentle whistle that seemed to emenate from one of the appendages of this very same apartment. My weary legs became taut with excitement at this preturbed turn of events.
On entering the bedroom, I enquired ; using the notation normally used to greet another person through the gramaphone. I was met was met with silence; and the rustle of corduroy.
And the gentle whistle.
“where are you?”
Silence.
“here” came the reply and I, jumped at the proximity to which I was met by the monosyllable. I swung around to see this man, sitting atop a cupboard, nay, slouching atop it, a coat of dirty brown and a tie beneath a visage that spoke of scrawniness and anointed with dishevelled hair. He looked at me through those leafy brown eyes and emoted factors of seeming intelligence as well as a fayn image of downtroddeness.
“unreasoning” he said, “are you of having been confined to this empty fold where the only friends of yours, speak to you alone”.
I made my way to the head of my bed and rested my aching back on the sliced oak to be at ease with the stranger who had stealthily made his way into my home.
“you do realize that robert bears free will to direct5 any part of your life that seems appropriate to him” he said” and all those other friends of yours bear more contempt of you than good willing”
“the other friends of mine?,” I replied , “are whom?”
“justin, anne and her mother”
Taken aback at his presumable knowledge of my state of affairs, I withheld speaking another word. Unitlli brought myself to consider that there were people that got wind of my state of being.
This stranger being one of them.
“and what may be your name?” I asked him.
“william” he replied.
“how well do you identify the objectives of my acquaintences, if they tend to reveal their form to me, and me alone? How well do you claim to know their names, when I’ve only revealed them to the Doctor who visits me every fortnight?”
“I’ve been through the barrage of unknown faces and infinite questions” william told me, “of winding passageways though arriving at one concluding decision”. I know the woman who watches you batheing, the man who inappropriately moves through corridors of your hospital when he is unqualified to attempt your profession and robert who questions every one of your actions, during the day, the day before, and every week beyond that”
“I know you”.
I looked away. Alarmed and mildly pleased that a stranger knew me so well and knocked at the doors of my supposed tainted perception of reality.
“what do I do?” I let myself say, surrendering to the advice of this man.
“the neuroleptic” he said.
“what?”
“the pills,” he said, gesturing to the bottle at the side of the bed atop a desk, “you’ve been prescribed, are to be consumed every moment you find that he voices from those people drive you further into malady”
“what will become of me,” I said, inquisitive about how notions of insecurity would breach periodic moments of calculated action.
“that,” william replied, as he got off the cupboard, thrusting his torso, and landed on his feet on the ground beneath, “is a question, I should ask myself”
He then wandered out of the bedroom and into a recess that occupied the far end of the room.
My eyes squinted at the bottle of pills that lay behind the lantern by the side of the bed. Fueled by the advice of this unknown man, and resolute to end my seeming indecisiveness, I stretched out, opened the bottle and devoured 3 of those blue pills. I then lay in bed untill the darkness of my eyelids brought me relief.
And sleep.
And in the sleep that wrought its way into my blighted consciousness, I saw the forms that gave me company during the times I stayed awake. Each walked across, mumbling how they’d been shunned by me, or my mannerism, that had changed along the course of this dream. Anne held her little teddy close to her bosom and stuck close to her mother, her eyes misty with tears. Justin slammed the door fo the room I was residing in, and walked outside. Roberst sat in the chair in front of me, and slowly faded as my eyelids blanched with daylight.
With daylight.
And with daylight, I awoke and opened the door to the corridor that led me to the apartment’s lobby.
The woman with the mopstick, looked at me wide eyed and tarried the course of her housework. The chimney sweeper almost stumbled on his broom as he witnessed a change in my demanour.
“sir, you look better,” he told me.
I merely smiled at him and regarded his observation with gratitude and asked him if he saw a person called william, who walked into my apartment last evening.
“no sir” he said.
I described the stranger to him, dishevelled hair, dirty brown coat, black boots…
“no sir, “ he said.
I noted his response with an queer understanding nod and opened the gate to wake into daylight.
My daylight.
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