INSPIRATION

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I had a great idea yesterday, a vision of a series of paintings, specifically designed to suit the people I love… Not just a iconic image of rock or film stars, but something a little different, which I can’t exactly lay out here, but a kernel of a great idea. It was something which would have made great christmas presents for all my family. Each individually specific, it was quite simple. Then the idea began to morph, change from individual paintings to a massive painting which brought all the individual elements in to a single concept which was more about me.

This is the difference between normal people and artists. Normal people, who have the ability to paint as a craft, will have an initial idea and then do it competently, where as an artist, will have the initial  idea and then build it, develop it, ruminate on it further, and possibly completely lose it because they have over thought it.

I did this once with a play I wrote, called ‘POLEMIC’, which was very nearly put on by a Manchester Theatre Company (thank goodness it wasn’t), The original idea was an examination of how people become locked in their own ideology and then cannot have a dialogue with anyone who doesn’t accept their point of view. It was a fairly simple idea, but with some great visuals. Then, I decided to play around with it… It was the nineties, when post-modernism was all the rage, so I added another layer of complexity, by having the actors come out of character, and pretend to be actors discussing the play’s concept…

As I say, it came very close to being put on, but it didn’t, because one of the producers came to their senses. It was AWFUL. Pretentious Shite. I was young…er, and with a head full of my own importance, I thought it was earth-shattering. I thought it was Great Art.

My point? The Artist will risk a great idea because of how their brains work. A germ will become a contagion, because they have the ability to conflate one thing with another and then chase it down a blind alley.

Of course this can make amazing art, think of Dali, or Basquiat… but it is a dangerous strategy.

So, nowadays, I’m not so taken with the conflation, I’m thinking why not go with the initial idea? It was simple, it was personal to the person I wanted to paint it for, so why not just do that ? Do I need to add the extra layer of complication?

Well yes… because in the end, the big piece is about me, the artist, and not just a craft exercise.

Dale ‘m’

EVERY DAY

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EVERY DAY

EVERY DAY I TRY TO FIX YOU IN MY MIND’S EYE,

I KISS YOUR PICTURES AND SAY I LOVE YOU,

JUST AS I SAID I LOVE YOU EVERY SINGLE DAY,

WE WERE TOGETHER,

JUST AS YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME…

EVERY SINGLE DAY.

 

AND WITH EVERY ACTION AND EVERY THOUGHT,

OUR LOVE WAS APPARENT,

SO ALONE I CARRY THE TORCH,

AND ALONE I’M NOT EVEN HALF THE MAN…

YOU MADE ME.

I SCUTTLE FROM DAY TO DAY,

LIKE A SPIDER SCUTTLING FROM CORNER TO WEB…

WITHOUT A FUCKING CLUE!

 

THERE’S A THOUGHT?

DALE ‘M’

POETS FOR THE DAY ARCHIVE

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SORROWS OF THE MOON

Tonight the moon dreams in a deeper languidness,
And, like a beauty on her cushions, lies at rest;
While drifting off to sleep, a tentative caress
Seeks, with a gentle hand, the contour of her breast;

As on a crest above her silken avalanche,
Dying, she yields herself to an unending swoon,
And sees a pallid vision everywhere she’d glance,
In the azure sky where blossoms have been strewn.

When sometime, in her weariness, upon her sphere
She might permit herself to sheda furtive tear,
A poet of great piety, a foe of sleep,

Catches in the hollow of his hand that tear,
An opal fragment, iridescent as a star;
Within his heart, far from the sun, it’s buried deep.

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE


The Rose Family

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple’s a rose,
And the pear is, and so’s
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose –
But were always a rose.

Robert Frost

He Is More Than A Hero

 

He is more than a hero
he is a god in my eyes–
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you — he

who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing

laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I can’

speak — my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far from me

 

Sappho

Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly,
And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking.
Which was the real—the butterfly or the man ?
Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?
The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea
Returns anon to the shallows of a transparent stream.
The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city,
Was once the Prince of the East Hill.
So must rank and riches vanish.
You know it, still you toil and toil,—what for?
Chuang Tzu And The Butterfly
Li Po


 

PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD

Elbowing our way, we run.
Someone is being beaten up in the market.
You wouldn’t want to miss it!
We pick up speed, racing to the uproar,
scooping up water in our felt boots
and forgetting to wipe our sniffles.

And stood stock-still. In our little hearts something tightened,
when we saw how the ring of sheepskin coats,
fur coats, hooded coats, was contracting,
how he stood up near the green vegetable stall
with his head pulled into his shoulders from the hail
of jabs, kicks, spitting, slaps in the face.

Suddenly someone from the right by the handcart
pushed his teeth in,
Suddenly someone from the left bashed his forehead with a
chunk of ice.
Blood appeared-and then they started in, in earnest.
All piled up in a heap they began to scream together,
pounding with sticks, reins,
and linchpins out of wheels.

In vain he wheezed to them: ‘Mates,
you’re my mates-what’s the matter? ‘
The mob wanted to settle accounts fully.
The mob was deaf with rage.
The mob grumbled at those who weren’t putting their boots in,
and they trampled something that looked like a body
into the spring snow that was turning into mud.

They beat him up with relish. With ingenuity. Juicy.
I saw how skillfully and precisely
one man kept putting the boots in,
boots with greasy flaps on them,
right under the belt of the man who was down,
smothered in mud and dungy water.

Their owner, a guy with an honest enough mug,
very proud of his high principles,
was saying with each kick: ‘Don’t try your tricks with us! ‘
booting him deliberately, with the utmost conviction,
and, sweat pouring, with a red face, he jovially called to me:
‘Come on, youngster, get in it! ‘

I can’t remember-how many there were, making a din,
beating him up.
It may have been a hundred, it may have been more,
but I, just a boy, wept for shame.
And if a hundred are beating somebody up,
howling in a frenzy-even if for a good cause-
I will never make one hundred and one!

YEVGENY YETUSHENKO -1932 – 2017


FOR JOHNNY POLE ON A FORGOTTEN BEACH

In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare of noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave…
how someday he would wait, giant
and straight.
Johnny, your dream moves summers
inside my mind.
He was tall and twenty that July,
but there was no balance to help;
only the shells came straight and even.
This was the first beach of assault;
the odor of death hung in the air
like rotting potatoes, the junkyard
of landing craft waited open and rusting.
The bodies were strung out as if they were
still reaching for each other, where they lay
to blacken, to burst through their perfect
skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.
He gave in like a small wave, a sudden
hole in his belly and the years all gone
where the Pacific noon chipped its light out.
Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose
and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire
for its battle season? Does he lie there
forever, where his rifle waits, giant
and straight?…I think you die again
and live again,
Johnny, each summer that moves inside
my mind.

ANNE SEXTON


Toads

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison –
Just for paying a few bills!
That’s out of proportion.

Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don’t end as paupers;

Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
they seem to like it.

Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets – and yet
No one actually starves.

Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that’s the stuff
That dreams are made on:

For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,

And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.

I don’t say, one bodies the other
One’s spiritual truth;
But I do say it’s hard to lose either,
When you have both.

by Philip Larkin


ALONE

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

MAYA ANGELOU


LOSS AND  GAIN

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW


HENRY V

 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


BEAUTY XXV

And a poet said, ‘Speak to us of Beauty.’

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?

And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

The aggrieved and the injured say, ‘Beauty is kind and gentle.

Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.’

And the passionate say, ‘Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.

Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.’

The tired and the weary say, ‘beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.

Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.’

But the restless say, ‘We have heard her shouting among the mountains,

And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.’

At night the watchmen of the city say, ‘Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.’

And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, ‘we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.’

In winter say the snow-bound, ‘She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.’

And in the summer heat the reapers say, ‘We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.’

All these things have you said of beauty.

Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,

And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.

It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,

But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,

But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,

But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

But you are life and you are the veil.

Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

KAHLIL GIBRAN


A Star Without a Name

When a baby is taken from the wet nurse,

it easily forgets her

and starts eating solid food.

 

Seeds feed awhile on ground,

then lift up into the sun.

 

So you should taste the filtered light

and work your way toward wisdom

with no personal covering.

 

That’s how you came here, like a star

without a name. Move across the night sky

with those anonymous lights.

Rumi


TIME

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality,
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY


Celestial Music

I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she’s unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I’m always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I’m like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We’re walking
On the same road, except it’s winter now;
She’s telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height-
Then I’m afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It’s this moment we’re trying to explain, the fact
That we’re at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn’t move.
She’s always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We’re very quiet. It’s peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering-
It’s this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.

John Donne


Summer Dawn 

My sleeping children are still flying dreams
in their goose-down heads.
The lush of the river singing morning songs
Fish watch their ceilings turn sun-white.
The grey-green pike lances upstream
Kale, like mermaid’s hair
points the water’s drift.
All is morning hush
and bird beautiful.

I only,
I didn’t have flu.

Spike Milligan


Everyone Sang
BY SIEGFRIED SASSOON
Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on – on – and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away … O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.


 

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn’t exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood’s ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.

Rainer Maria Rilke


Despair

Who is he?
A railroad track toward hell?
Breaking like a stick of furniture?
The hope that suddenly overflows the cesspool?
The love that goes down the drain like spit?
The love that said forever, forever
and then runs you over like a truck?
Are you a prayer that floats into a radio advertisement?
Despair,
I don’t like you very well.
You don’t suit my clothes or my cigarettes.
Why do you locate here
as large as a tank,
aiming at one half of a lifetime?
Couldn’t you just go float into a tree
instead of locating here at my roots,
forcing me out of the life I’ve led
when it’s been my belly so long?

All right!
I’ll take you along on the trip
where for so many years
my arms have been speechless

 by Anne Sexton

PERPETUAL WINTER

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Will the sun ever shine again?

I don’t see how…

You made the sun gleam with wonder,

You made the world a magical place…

Now all the magic has gone,

And I am left with the nothing…

Empty pages flickering in front of my eyes.

 

I’m emotionally chilled to the bone,

Nothing can warm my half -soul,

But the match of yours.

A half-life in half light,

Always winter and never Christmas.

And yet it is just weeks from your smile,

And your joyful love…

Which I can never share on this plane again.

 

It’s the nights, always the nights,

When the yearning cannot be abated.

I wake and sob every night,

And know it will never stop.

The days can be contained by action,

But the night just drags on forever.

 

first time I’ve been able to look at these blogs since I wrote them, Back when grief was new and all consuming.

Dale

NOW

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NOW

NOW IS VERY MUCH A THING OF THE PAST,

IT WILL BE ARRIVING SOON, MAYBE,

THE IMPERATIVE TO DO IT NOW,

APPROACHES ON THE HORIZON,

LIKE LAWRENCE ON A CAMEL,

YET NEVER QUITE IN FOCUS…

I WANT TO LIVE IN THE NOW,

BUT THE WANT IS NOT

THE PARENT OF THE DEED.

 

I’M LOST IN A HEADSPACE,

WHICH IS LOST IN TIME,

THE NOWNESS IS NOT NOW,

BUT ALSO THEN AND THERE,

SOONER OR LATER, MAYBE,

A VACUOUS AND FATUOUS

BETWEEN TIME.

MAYBE THE DRUGS DON’T WORK,

IN THIS NOW TIME.

DALE ‘M’

ALMOST

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ALMOST

I’M ALMOST CAPABLE OF ACTING NORMAL…

I CATCH MYSELF WHEN LOOKING

THROUGH MY ALL-SEEING EYE,

OF SEEMING OBLIQUELY STRAIGHT…

SO THAT A CASUAL ON-LOOKER

MIGHT MISTAKE ME FOR A CHANCER,

A GEEZER, A LEERY WIDEBOY,

QUIPPING RISQUE ONE LINERS…

AND THEY MIGHT THEN FORM THE OPINION,

HE’S FULL OF HIMSELF!

 

AND AT LAST THEY MIGHT MISS,

THE ALL PERVADING SLOUGH OF DESPONDENCY,

THE BLACK COWL OF DESPAIR,

THE WASTELAND OF WRETCHEDNESS,

WHICH I HAVE WORN LIKE A TALISMAN,

THESE MANY MONTHS,

IN THE RIPTIDE OF MY VIDUITY.

 

MY BELOVED, THE LOST HALF OF MY SOUL,

WILL CELEBRATE THAT I CAN SMILE,

THAT I CAN JOKE,

WITH THE SAME BLACK CORE…

AND THAT DAYS CAN GO BY…

WITHOUT A VEIL OF TEARS.

 

YESTERDAY,

WHILST I WAS WATCHING FOOTBALL,

AND MY FRIEND SAT IN ANOTHER ROOM,

POINTEDLY UNWATCHING FOOTBALL,

HER MOVEMENTS SOUNDED SO LIKE MARIE…

IT WAS A CHOKER,

MY BRAIN FOOLED WITH THE IDEA,

THAT IT WAS HER!

ALMOST.

 

DALE ‘M’

ANNE SEXTON – FOR JOHNNY POLE ON THE FORGOTTEN BEACH

anne sexton

FOR JOHNNY POLE ON A FORGOTTEN BEACH

In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare of noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave…
how someday he would wait, giant
and straight.
Johnny, your dream moves summers
inside my mind.
He was tall and twenty that July,
but there was no balance to help;
only the shells came straight and even.
This was the first beach of assault;
the odor of death hung in the air
like rotting potatoes, the junkyard
of landing craft waited open and rusting.
The bodies were strung out as if they were
still reaching for each other, where they lay
to blacken, to burst through their perfect
skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.
He gave in like a small wave, a sudden
hole in his belly and the years all gone
where the Pacific noon chipped its light out.
Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose
and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire
for its battle season? Does he lie there
forever, where his rifle waits, giant
and straight?…I think you die again
and live again,
Johnny, each summer that moves inside
my mind.

ANNE SEXTON

A feeling readily recognised. Loss of the innocence of youth, coupled with actual loss, becomes a very active metaphor for life. Anne Sexton always finds the words to describe a sensitive poignant feeling we may all have to face at some point in our lives.

Dale

JOHN DONNE (1572 – 1631)

John-Donne-Biography

Air and Angels

Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be;
         Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
         But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
         More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
         And therefore what thou wert, and who,
                I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love’s pinnace overfraught;
         Ev’ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
         For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt’ring bright, can love inhere;
         Then, as an angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear,
         So thy love may be my love’s sphere;
                Just such disparity
As is ‘twixt air and angels’ purity,
‘Twixt women’s love, and men’s, will ever be.

John Donne

I have always had a passion for John Donne, his poetry seems very modern in comparison with his contemporaries, like Shakespeare or even Milton.

He grudgingly became an ordained minister at the constant requests of the King, but his poetry speaks of a worldliness usually denied by preachers.

Dale

GUILT

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I KEEP THINKING THAT ITS ALL MY FAULT!

I WANTED TO BE WITH HER SO MUCH

THAT MY WISH FULFILMENT WAS AT THE COST

OF HER LIFE.

THAT GOD WAS PUNISHING OUR PRESUMPTION,

THAT OUR HAPPINESS

COULD NOT GO ON.

 

BUT THEN I THINK OF HER,

MY BELOVED,

AND REALISE… IT WAS WHAT SHE WANTED!

I REACTED TO HER DECLARATION OF LOVE!

I WOULD HAVE STAYED AWAY,

STILL LOVING HER, BUT LETTING HER LIVE HER LIFE.

SHE HAD MY NAME TATTOOED ON HER SKIN,

SHE MOVED TO BE CLOSE TO ME,

ALL I DID WRONG

WAS LOVE HER WITH ALL MY HEART AND SOUL.

I NEVER REGRETTED BEING WITH HER FOR ONE SECOND!

BUT NOW I REGRET…

AND I TURN ALL THE MOMENTS OVER AND OVER,

TRYING TO SEE HOW HOW I COULD

EFFECT THE OUTCOME?

SHE CRASHED THE CAR

AND LEFT ME HERE.

 

DALE ‘M’ BELOVED HUSBAND, HAND-FASTED FOREVER.

SHRUNKEN SKULL

tattooed-maori

SHRUNKEN SKULL

THE FATUOUS HOURS BETWEEN 1 AND 4 AM

HAUNT MY ACHING BRAIN AWAKE.

SCOOPED OUT MIND AND STUFFED BACK

WILLY NILLY INSIDE A SHRUNKEN SKULL.

A NOODLE NOGGIN.

 

THE FUZZ OF ALCOHOL AND PAINKILLERS,

UPSET MY STOMACH.

MAKE ME THROW UP :

LUCID TORTUOUS DREAMS!

AWAKE AND BOLDLY CRUMBLING…

 

THE SQUEEZE OF MY MIND,

EVISCERATES MY SOUL.

I TREMBLE AT YOUR ABYSS,

THE VACUUM OF YOUR SPACE.

I TRY TO FILL IT.

 

NOTHING FILLS IT,

NOTHING CAN FILL IT,

I HAVE TO OCCUPY

LIKE A PENITENT PILGRIM…

ON MY KNEES.

 

DALE ‘M’