the who's and the what's

I sit here quietly, alone in a social gathering because I've never been able to do small talk. Never learned how to mingle and talk sh*t no one really even cares about. Never. It’s an art to engage in and carry on a conversation about nothing. Maybe I would've had more nameless s*x if I had. But I didn't and haven't. Perhaps only because I was honest enough never to give a f***, and knew deep down neither did anyone else.

Always the same cliched questions, the same routine; what do you do, who do you know, how long, etc. Same sh*t again and again. Everyone walking around with the same keys, to see who's pants or accounts they'll unlock. Everyone thirsting and craving the same, each with their social etiquette. Everyone consumed in the “what’s”.

If I was to show a moment of honesty, and tell you that I have my issues, as undoubtedly do you. I have my cr*p, and you have yours. In this day, and at our age, love comes with enough caveats that we'll probably never have a happily ever after. We can hide our demons long enough to say the words, to entwine, and reveal... And then to find we can't cope. I love only that you love me, not all the burdens you lay before me. If I had enough honesty to tell you that, and not as “what” you are, but to tell you that you're beautiful, and when you smile I want to experience a moment with you, to freeze it so that I can look back at some sh*tty moment in my life and smile. Now if I told you that, and that I have nothing more to offer than a few nights of experience, you'd think I was just another f*cking asshole. Another “guy”. Another boy that wants his fun but none of the responsibility. But that's just it. I bore of these games because I've given you honesty. I've ask you who you are, like we all did as children, in school. Our questions were all "who" questions, and we loved and had friendships based on who's. Now all replaced with the bullshit of "what's".

Far from lie, and waste your time with charades, if I was to sincerely tell you I'm interested in experiencing the who, as I love all the who's, you'd walk away. So I save us all the formalities and sit here quietly, alone. Watching all the “what’s” bore themselves into non-existence. Watching and wondering how I never fell into that society. Thankfully, always an outsider. A victim of my own failures. Consumed in my late twenties with my own mid-life crisis and search for proof of life in fleeting moments with women, and where none should make themselves available to me, with wh*res.

My clergy remain unclothed, bathed in carnivorous truth, beyond the intellectual understanding of moralists, theologians, educators. My gods between her legs, her’s in the hunger of my passions. We feed one another, steal from each other, quench our thirsts together. But above all this, I am myself, and she is what I desire.

Always fighting the despairing abyss of mediocrity. I see six billion lives crowding a dying planet, infesting, such that the gods see ants scrambling for breadcrumbs. I desire only that I may be remembered, known, immortal. Unwilling to accept death as it is, powerless against its inevitability, I am left with words. Words and even those as if written by a Salieri living eternally through us all.

who gives a f*ck about me? really? therein lies the problem, because chief amongst all, i give a f*ck about me. drowning in narcissistic self-infatuation made of smoke and mirrors. i dont even see myself anymore, not as i used to, not as i am. a self indulgent mirage of all i dream i can be - too good for most of you. the longer we're without the love of another, the more we fill that void with own love of ourselves. more and more each day, that you aren't good enough for me anymore. or so the coward would have me believe. risk nothing. the grotesque image too beautiful for anyone that would have me. no, i chase after apparitions, the progeny of the gods, heirs to beauty that can only be bought. such are the cravings i wake every night to and long for. its all bullshit. a fusion of styles, none of them me, all well worked lies such that only when you remove the colours, the pastels, the oil, when you have nothing but a blank canvas can you truly see how f*cking plain i am. but even then, i see mastery and artistry in an empty page, and duly credit myself. f*ck the truth, its only a relative perspective anyway. worthless to my ego. like the theologians that pick and choose sciences that serve them alone.

its so long since i stopped looking at myself that i don't even know what beauty is anymore. i would never have those that would love me, none are as beautiful as i. turning my back on all opportunities to actually feel anything without my initials inscribed on it. insecurity bleeding into narcissistic love, and as the blood runs dry, begins the self loathing.

a healthy dose of self-loathing...

I've become such a superficial depraved f*ckface... Looks looks looks... www.hotornot.com, clichemofo.com... And I've started to use foul language too... I don't even recognise beauty anymore because I've forgotten how to look past 3mm... If its not a form of art... I'm just like those shallow 90210 pr*cks without the rich parents... Worst part is everyone's so fucking boring anyway... When you forget what love feels like you learn to love just yourself and then you start buying face creams for men and plucking hairs in front of a mirror with tweezers... Gone are the good old days when some stupid cow loved you in the mornings when you were uglier than quasi-f*ckin-modo and your breath smelt like shit, but the dumb cow still wanted to kiss you... Maybe that's love... Two people curled up in a pile of filth... In the worst crap each one has to offer... BO and the gunk crap we get in our eyes... With a smile.

A Perfect Storm... Turner's 'Calais Pier'

A fucking storm, this life we find ourselves in. A storm in which we avoid all collisions. Preferring to fair the seas aboard our own vessels, charting the waters as the current of time carries us in but one direction, to the same place. A fucking storm, and no one swims. A fucking storm despite the seasons, the creaking of the boards and rupturing of the hull. Masts upright, sails torn through and through. Sirens fly between the ropes that bind my body. Take me. Take me I beg. Drag me into the murky waters I stand and watch every day, without the courage to jump. Or steer this vessel that I may collide with another life I'm so afraid to harm. Drown together, alone, the mermaids calling. Harbours, shores, countries, divided lands of civilisations. Everything meaningless. Take me from my prison of caring. In lust is living. In love I am the ocean.

by Haemophiliac...
...finished 8th October 2009

Written at the National Gallery looking at Turner's 'Calais Pier'.

Marriage

How do we choose the ones we spend the rest of our lives with? People read through their vows but to sit and contemplate each word should be enough to overwhelm any one of us. The profoundness of each promise, each commitment. In a world full of lives each so unique, both in similarities and differences. Each so temporary, and yet their ripples permanent. How does one, with their own talents and abilities, their own weaknesses and deficiencies; how does one select one, and only one, and find contentment? Is it resignation, defeat, acceptance, realism? What is the nature of marriage? Is it when we see the worst of ourselves in a mirror and satisfy our adventurous desires by being grateful that someone should love us despite ourselves? Is it something to pity? Our most pathetic moment? Standing outside it feels weak. Standing at an altar I see them ruled by fear irrespective of the words they so robotically repeat and the customs they so dutifully observe. A celebration of none other than the deterioration of a beautiful mirage from this point forward. Lies all told with such conviction and belief. We happily delude ourselves into believing we are good men. Good women. Good husbands and wives. Everything about a lifetime of love cries to me of defeat. A fear of death. Our attempts at immortality. And yet I recall when I was at deaths door, and wanted no more than to lose myself in one heart, feel one vessel, kiss her lips alone. I recall when I forsook all the stars in the night sky for an apparition. When nothing felt more real. It was I then, that was defeated, for I longed not for what was mine, but peering through a window at shadows, of all I dreamed you to be.