The Words of a Less Wise Man Pt2

When you repeatedly rebuild empires out of ruins

Ingenuity walks astride with creativity in constant rumble

Imagination a force beyond what better blessed can comprehend

When corrupted by darker initiatives in the hour of storms

**    **   **

I was but a moral in the eye of a fitful storm

Words a plenty in the insatiable ravages of all the chaos this vessel bore

Saints so fallen and given to the bottle an eluded cure, for which the dagger bleeds a sonnet in waters corrupted by tainted lies

 

The Words of a Less Wise Man Pt1

The curse of a memory torn into the very fabric of a personality’s frame

When all the ruptured fragment conjures is a contrasting image to the projection we wish to dream

**    **   **

Hate is merely love with a knife in its hand

Love is just a bar steward with a knife behind its back

**    **   **

Conflict consumes resources such as sanity and stability

So do not deride a world weary man who is at war with his nature

 

How a Man Leans

“A person’s posture can sell an entire library of insight into their character, chapters so subtly implied in the slightest of actions”

I lean, not slouch, slump or support myself against but lean on surfaces. When I’m leaning it’s a sign that I’m safe in an environment and at work it’s a sign of control, the ability to control a room from one key location with a singular tone of authority. The action also implies a safety about my mood, an inherit security for those surrounding me as the trigger finger is resting idle at the side of my readily unfriendly temper.

The very activity of letting every muscle falter into relaxation is a thing to spread the warming calmness through my body; an equally important activity is how I resume upright motion. Too quick and assertive and I could be on the verge of a volatile reaction, slower motion an indication of mellowed resistance and a composed disposition.

The best photo of me that I can recall is me leaning against a pillar, unaware there are even cameras slyly pointing lenses in my vicinity!

So what about you:

     Do you hunch in a repressed posture of stress or frustration?

     Do you spring from one arena of action to another in energetic pose?

     Do you shape yourself into those dark corners of the room in shaded insecurity?

However your body naturally accustoms itself, I say make it yours and do it right

 

Tri-Factor of Failure

I sight a storm, a torrid tempest of all that natural harm can spin

I walk into it, gun upon my head and fresh bottle full

Trigger pulled, bottle adds to the empties I have piled a mountain high

But alas the joke has been heard, no end does meet this mortals attempt of worth

The bullet faulted, the torrid tearing of the wind did merely ruffle hair

The bottle only cause for a hangover sent from hell

I hath survived and now do ready myself for the next trial I must endure

And this piece even fails to rhyme!

The Amateurs Guide to Self Harm

So…

Life hath finally lost its flavour to the extensive degree that you are numbed to the internal pain, the consistent stabbing sensation of life’s betrayal that perpetrates every forsaken waking hour you are forced to respire. At which point only two methods of feeling anything above the spreading emotional numbness infecting every singular cell of your being are available, and you’re not quite ready to commit the fatally final act of suicide (covered in the next optimistic guide).

This leaves one option on the table ‘Self Harm’, and yes I know it’s less effective than suicide and you will have to hear the pathetically curdled words “Are you Ok?” every god forsaken episode of human contact, but we can’t help that the human race is full of idiots. On the bright side, you are still alive to rather bluntly aim an attention pointing finger to the bloody marks on your body and say “Do you think I’m ok?” using your best ‘Are you a fucking idiot’ tone.

So, the nitty gritty, how to properly execute the somewhat self-destructive activity of ‘Self Harm’:

 

Never inflict damage near a rather over healthy blood flow

       This particular point has to be raised as the objective of ‘Self Harm’ is not to kill yourself, and for the amateur in the arts of summoning the refreshing sensations of physical pain as a means of confirming you are still able to feel anything; think of the counteractive process of bleeding too much life out of that fractured shell you call a body and dying, and in that case you definitely will not feel anything every again.

Make it look like an accident

       Perfections own degree of exactly straight red lines, one after blissfully humanity confirming other in a row, cannot be explained away as ‘The kitchen knife caught me’… what, five times in a row as you let it happen?!. ‘I brushed it on a wire fence’ is and only will look like that if you are clever enough to avoid giving into the OCD that has rather unhelpfully added to the wonderfully positive urge of hurting one’s self.

       And think location, the wire fence scenario does not apply to areas of the body not commonly exposed to those risks ‘I was checking my thigh when a gust of wind picked me up and threw against the fence, before I could pull my trouser leg down again’ will not be believable, ‘I moved out of the path of a cyclist and scratched my arm’ however…

Frequency

       To have reached such a depressingly deep place to feel so strongly about the option outlined here is never good, once should be enough unless ‘You’re fucked worse than a carrot in a cage of starving rabbits’ to use the politely official terminology. And one ‘accident’ on the rare occasion that life’s damning condemnation really is too much for the comprehension of living to process is just about passable, turning your body into something that looks like a human pin cushion at a nursing home’s international knitting contest makes it rather obvious. Even to the idiot asking “Are you ok?”

 

I would so love to wallow around in merry delusion, whilst the fluffy bunnies sing choirs of cheesy positive pop songs but alas I not so able to delude myself about the unspoken damnation of a life sentence in this world. So to say that subjects like the one I am covering imply positive connotations would be as honest as that carrot hoping to escape the hungry bunnies. Such places as the depressive survivors of stripped away optimism do darkly inhabit have such self destructive options on open view in the markets of sorrow, and when walking a mine field so avidly as the damned do you are bound to hit the odd mine.

At least some informed soul formulated the wonderfully blunt ‘suicide box’ on the mental health form the doctor will hand to you when you show the scars of that ‘accident’ in the kitchen or ‘brush with’ a wire fence. And I would honestly hope that any slightest flicker of recognition with what I have written here would have you running to said doctors and ticking that box, after you have laughed yourself silly reading this.

DISCLAIMER: LAUGHING AFTER READING THIS WILL EITHER DEMONSTARTE MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES, A SERIOUSLY SCREWED SENSE OF HUMOUR OR THAT YOU ARE JUST PLAIN BAT SHIT CRAZY!

AND ANY OFFENCE TAKEN CAN BE DIRECTED TO THE PERMINANTLY EMPTY OFFICE MY SANITY ONCE INHABITED, YOU CAN JOIN THE QUEUE!!

 

The Week Defined in Darker Skies

From the first timid time I dared to lift my eye lids from over the two cold orbs I use to see, all demonic potential of a world heavy loaded with meticulously detailed pain extended as far as my cursed sight doth see

All a storm has passed this way, a merry hell to rain down in callous hail upon all this civilly constructed shell so fragile by every timid crack that screamingly outlines every faulted thing huddling within

No shelter stays whole or defence remains in ways to be even loosely defined as a working thing, when all fire rages wildly with wilfully consuming chaos through my besieged fragment of nothingness value labelled only as my calm

Eyes see apparitions of future pain through the poison lens of a crimson stain as the path before disintegrates so purposely slowly, as if a cruelly picking god were to be laughingly knocking each stone down in corrupted joy before the eyes of tortured souls

Blades meet flesh and suffering marks it in reddened streaks lashed across the skin, no angels here to heal a demon’s ills with enlightened tones of forgiveness prayer, only thanklessly begging mercy calling for their pitted existences to be saved

So fate creepingly crawls with derisorily drawn out cries to defect to places where I dare not tread, steps heavy laden with a past’s regret do doggedly claw to bring me back to whence sorrow’s crop have chokingly seized every fibre of hope

And all such horrific visions of misspent awfulness instilled in those seven eternities of twenty four hours of waking hell, sleep as damned as when I wake to see a freshly laid burden to pitilessly whip my only fractured fragment of brightness to have made it out, traumatised and broke

So from the first time the night with cruelty sluggishly draws the curtain on that fair day of all a dystopian nightmare would weep to feel, I must hope not the dwelling memories of what misery I write will persist to remind me that I await it all with the dawn sentence of fresh light