Hark!
Hark what?
Hark the herald angels sing?!?
Good for them.
Amen!
Awomen…
Indeed!
Exactly!
Goodbye?
Good riddance!!!
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Tag Archives: fear
It is, quite!
It’s quite possible that I see things differently to everybody else,
that I see danger at the corner cos it there resides.
That I see cheaters, schemers,, dreamers, in the words of rhetoric,
that I cannot believe in anything – but myself.
It’s quite possible that I see everything just like everybody else
but we’ve been lied to long enough so as to not even believe ourselves.
And in comparison where common ground is found
we are often made suspicious, even made to doubt-
for we must all be different and-
then be judged as though we’re not?
©TheHairyTeacher2014
In Life As In Love
We are all characters in somebody else’s book as well, as I in theirs, they are in mine, and so the cycle completes itself, the gentle interweave of thoughts and images; we are all still characters in someone else’s book, and she, for what it’s worth, was in mine.
It all began, as any story does, but when exactly is such a vagary that all I’ll say is it all began sometime before this, sometime, as you’d expect, in the past, seeing as any story must have its linearity to some degree.
When he heard her speak for the first time, she spoke English, but it could have been French, it was so heavily inflected. As it happened, after that she did, as they both did try French together with varying degrees of success. She spoke as she had to, he, as he wanted to, and this would come to define everything that they were.
She dressed simply, almost the prude, he drew his inspiration from rebellion: he dared to be different. She wore her hair short, cropped, a very conservative style. He left grow grow long, and somewhat unkempt. He had an image conveyed by his exterior. His interior it was that would finally betray him.
As they passed each other, met each other, chatted to each other, they found a path between them that dared to intertwine. She had smiled freely from the start but now he noticed the light in her eyes, he presumed a recent phenomenon, brought on by his own presence. He, too, felt a smile gain purchase on his face, and had even dared to think differently.
„If only she would be mine.”
One day followed the next into a framework of unfettered change. She became more sensual, more illustrious; he assumed, too, that she had begun to notice the change in him, for hadn’t he just then passed a witty remark. How intelligent he must seem. Beneath the veneer of apathy a man troubled with such existential matters truly existed.
One day became another and he built her up into the graven image of his thwarted soul, she would be the one to save him, redeem him- for whatever he had done, he had done wrong. She would be his right, his innocence; she would be the one to teach him love. “Oh sweet rebellious heart, that you may be salved by the unguent of my deepest love!” He thought, indeed, that she would matter.
One day not unlike another, busying himself with his indifference, trying to remain inconspicuous, he had spotted her in a crowd. She hadn’t even noticed him. He dared to think she didn’t care. She just hadn ‘t noticed him, but why? Perhaps it wasn’t even her, but it was. His tiny heart knew it. The flowers late in bloom made to shed their petals. He approached in his casual way. „Were those laughs for me?”, as he passed a table full of stangers.
“Hi, how are you?” the faintest whisper, his all alluring mystery.
“Hi. Who are you?” the abundant reply.
Indeed!
One day, like another, just passed by, just kept on going without a care. No need to stop, no need to pause, to reflect. Just on and on. Day after day, week after week. Life crumbled into an infinite void, no longer relevant. For she hadn’t even recognised him, not even after he had explained himself. She had been so cool; he the frigid fool, rendered inert. He had tried to be witty. She had smiled politely, then left. The next time she had come to the bar she had had an escort, 3 men, as if protection was necessary.
He didn’t know why. He hadn’t even noticed her. She meant nothing anymore. He would swear he had never thought of her again. And yet she would remain a part of his story as he a part of hers. His pain: that she had played her part well while he remained in hers just an extra, unnoticed, forgotten. He had even forgotten himself.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Is this love…
I have a problem, I must admit it. Perhaps I should call a shrink, perhaps the police…you be the judge. My problem, you see, is this: I have of late found of my daughter’s head quite appealing. And before you say it: not in any aesthetic way,(although that may be considered, it may not be here!!!). I’m thinking more along the lines of haute cuisine. Or at least its alternatives on the higher plateaus of fine cuisine everywhere.
And yet I fear you have failed to understand me completely. I have never suggested that within the folds of her neck I smell sausages ( Claire…who knows who she is…once said this of that place, and with some reluctance, I must admit, she is right). Nor am I alluding to the frontal area, that place above the snot, but finely placed within the bop. No, not there either!
I am talking about an isolated area beyond the neck and in the upper regions, and yet not perceptible from the front, bar through the nostrils of a dog. In the parlance of the Jack and Jill-ian tradition, it is probably known as the crown; in my language of cooing and adoration it aligns itself with all things onomatopoeiac.
And yet with all the verbosity I have failed, with intention, to make myself clear.
You see, I smell curry…that’s right, quality curry – and I don’t mean a Saturday evening’s chips accompaniment half gawked up on the side of a road, a half-full carton still containing the pre-tasted fare looming chaste in the midst of all things otherwise- I smell the finest spices from the funkiest bazaar: I smell the routes to India, or from there, all things considered. I smell perfection…and it makes my stomach rumble, and what I fear is that I smell it coming from the crown of my own child.
As I hold her the scent of beauty rises, the risk of shame increases, and sometimes in my moment I feel less father and more cannibal. Some people talk almost high-faluting about the smell of new-born babes; me, I fear the truth in one-year-olds who have taken on the perverse scent of all that would be considered divine.
Now, before you ask: do I want to cannabilise my kid? Well,…do you have a good recipe?
©TheHairyTeacher2014
The fury fighting back
That the light would have faded but chose not to,
that it could have danced the shadow(s) down a different road;
Instead it chose to serve a whim, a purely infintesimal,
but for a change the pin begot the stack.
Alive among the riddles of the mind,
the answers seething, wreathing without grip.
Slowly falling further into a sense of mute hostility,
the words they’d shout meaning nothing but their sounds.
Not through gagging did the final silence fall,
but by shouting at it all till all n’ all.
The subterfuge had dissipated amongst the cracks,
the anger and the fury fighting back.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
A Monday Sunday
The tshirt tells a story
And I listen most intently
The truth or fiction of it
Left for another time.
The night has left me awkward
The personal juices lost
And the bare fleshed memory
Comes at such a cost.
The morning light with morning sights
Has caught me unawares
I tremble beneath a trimbley
I shudder behind my shades.
I let the street cross under
And let the bridge ship by
I harness hope from nothingness
And count the lives in time.
Inside the church of everybody
I sell my soul to God
But come feeling hard done by
Needing that hairy dog.
I inflict interest from onlookers
As I shave my way to work.
Outside dishevelled emptiness
Inside resides much worse.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
The wait
The stripping away of her aesthetics and faith
Waiting in line for the afternoon x-ray
The true search within to reveal everything
Of a doubt that she’s had about Self.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Finally
Fleeting fool forever forlorn
abandoning will to abstraction.
Fool forever forlorn feels
the hollow choices breathing.
Forever forlorn feels faintly
like the nightmarish doubt.
Forlorn feels faintly familiar.
And when the mirror’s dared again,
feels faintly familiar, finally!
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Face Off
The poisoned mind of online clutter, the shift from art to emptiness.
The bells, the lights of bar room games, at least a numbing quality.
Instead in this, a pernicious plot, slowly eroding reason.
And when the anger finally takes hold, I’m still responsible for my actions.
The inner fizz, the steam pipe hiss, the gas leak rising staunchly-
to ruin the air, the fettered mind, alone in the conclusion.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Earthy Pathways
In the early morning the exodus begins.
The waves of earthworms from their homes evicted.
Falling prey to birds and rubber tyres.
Their fate sealed by the earth in which they live.
Betrayed, at least upended, they have no Noah to their cause.
They move en masse but separately,
towards a new beginning.
But it’s progress, not their own,
which has pushed them to this point.
As their habitat’s eroded their risks become significant.
On a soaked air morn from earth’s saturation
little creatures flee, to breathe,
but may never sleep again.
©TheHairyTeacher2014