Are You Fed Up Too ?

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Are you fed up too, wishing to Christ this life would end,
You know, like you do
Are you also dreading waking up tomorrow
For yet another day filled with nothing but sorrow
Are you too envious of those who are terminally ill
Debt, loneliness, and despair, no end in sight
Have you too given up on Jesus ever putting it right
Are you turning to witchcraft and God knows what as a way out
Do you feel guilty for not being grateful for the health that you have
Feeling such sorrow for yourself, self pity to the max
But sometimes when life is shit, it’s just yoself who you think of, and nothing else
Will writing a poem about it, cure it, and make it not so bad
I doubt it, cause its so entrenched in my mind
Is everybody on WordPress messed and traumatized  beyond belief
Cause I would not be surprised if these words get a a lot of likes
Some comfort in that, I suppose, others feeling the same way
But I still gotta face tomorrow, put on my game face
When all I want to do, is have an end to this life
Here’s hoping I don’t wake up tomorrow.

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Censorship

Censorship
Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

‘Don’t look at that’, she screamed. ‘Material such as that is wrong, its sinful. It’s the work of the Devil. Keep looking at stuff like that, and you’ll end up in hell’.

With that onslaught I felt ashamed and embarrassed. My face redened. She left my room from where she had entered unannounced and unwelcome, and slammed the door. I knew she would not speak to myself for days. Her way of punishing her children when we got out of line, in her view. My body jumped as she slammed the door, and stomped down stairs, and again slammed the kitchen door.

To say she was angry was an understatement. But then she always seemed to be angry these days. I wonder was it because of her failing marriage. The public knowledge of her husband’s infidelity, and how she had that thrown back at her, daily in small town Ireland, by ‘helpful’ interfering neighbors and busy bodies. Minding  everyone’s business but their own.

But I was a young boy, exploring my sexuality. My body fully turbo charged up with male hormones and testosterone running through my body at speed. Desire and lust coursing through every fiber of my being, very hard to control at times.

Not helped, of course, by tales of sexual assignations successfully concluded by my school friends. Which they, with great joy loved to share with their friends, including those of us who were struggling to find a partner. Then to add to that we had everyone from the priest in the pulpit, to the nuns, to the government telling us, as a nation, as a generation of children that sex was wrong, nudity was abborant. The human body was to be hidden away. Biological desires were disgusting and evil, the work of the devil, no less. Were we to indulge in such matters, it was a royal road to hell we would be set upon, and for that there was no denying.

Of course looking back now, at the clerical sexual abuse and cruelty, has come to light, it does make one look hard and fast at such situations. Dismissive and questioning of the religious do gooders. Some I’m sure mean well, and do good. But many are dysfunctional, psychotic individuals, who belong if not in long-term prison, well then in long term psychological counselling.

It does not work denying a humans perfectly natural, and God given desires. Sexual desire is as natural as the feeling of thirst, hunger and fear. It’s when it’s censored and clamped down on. Pushed under the surface, that these desires morph into the more bizarre and extreme side of sexuality, which can lead to other issues. None of them good.

I was afraid. I felt bad. Like I had done something wrong. When all I had being doing was many young boys had done for years. Looking at and enjoying the female form in various states of undress. But now because it was wrong, according to those in the know. Because it was bad, and it was banned. I wanted to see it all. Especially the more extreme. It became my mission to travel, and view as much of it as possible. The more extreme and bizarre, the better. This of course before the internet and the freedom that affords young people today. So I did travel, and I saw what I needed and wanted to see, and that was ok.

Now if I want to see such films and images, it’s all here in my home at the flick of a switch. Just open up the laptop, and there it all is. Because it’s all there now, whenever, and if ever I want it. I can take it or leave it. Mostly I leave it. But its nice to know its available at any time, to view in private, anonymously, should I wish to.

Censorship, no not a big fan.

Written in response to a writing prompt. Censorship.

When Some One Dies

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Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash

When someone dies, I ask what the hell is life all about
I’m soo sad. I weep. Where the hell is this peace I seek
This pain is to much to bear. It sears my soul
I am hurting, distraught and bereft

Such a good friend of mine is taken from this life, at this time
Where is the justification. Where is the reason why
Where are you now God. Explain to me the reason why
Why now, why her. Why at this time

Come on, fess up. Explain to me the reason why
It makes no sense. I am distraught. I cry
I am a man, but yet I weep
Her Love, Her energy, Her Happiness
You take that, and don’t explain why

Do I hate you God, if you exist at all
This life I don’t understand at all
I curse you life, I curse you God
I really do.

London, England.

London tube train station.
Photo by Adrien Ledoux on Unsplash

The ‘interview’ began gently, almost imperceptible. An ever so gentle probing of one’s character. An opportunity to judge their sense of self-esteem, and their willingness to stand up for them selves and fight back.

He held out the cigarette, and asked in a friendly manner.

‘Have you got a light ?’

All so very innocent, yet deceptive. The rattle of the tube trains loud as they whisked their passengers into the center of London, and outwards towards the safety and quietness of the suburbs. He offered him the lit cigarette he held by his side.  Certainly not the reaction this human predator was expecting. No one hand diverted into a trouser or jacket pocket, affording the would be thief, come mugger an opportunity to  be victorious as he unleashed a ferocious, and unexpected assault a now one-handed adversary.
Something was certainly ‘off’ about the man asking for a light to his cigarette. Just something didn’t seem right, did not ‘feel right’. He moved away down the platform with some non believable excuse.

It was hard not to paint every young black person as a ‘near do well’. To see them as human, some struggling, some quiet religious. Yet so many caught up in the prison system. The local newspapers only to happy to report yet another ‘person of African decent’, a coloured person to you and me, involved in crime in one form or another. The reasons for their choice of ‘career’ many and varied, and depending on one’s view, you could either feel somewhat sorry for their upbringing. Some brought up in poverty and squalor, ill educated, non interested parents, schoolteachers, no mentors and all the rest. Some turned to crime, while others choose not to. Whether that was just good fortune, who is to know.
Were you one of these Guardian Newspaper readers. Those do gooders, who may over their Chianti and cheese at the various parties they attended in the best houses of Hampstead and Chelsea, would have decried the unfairness of it all, as they snacked on yet more canapes and scallops. Exclaiming that really someone must do something about the situation. Perhaps, they allowed, that next time round they may, actually, heaven forbid, vote for a labour government to run the country. The laughter around the oak dinner tables of such fine homes reverberated long and loud into the evening.

The phone call was brief and do the point.

He excused himself from the table, and the animated, and at times laughter filled conversations, at the select Chelsea townhouse, that had become near enough his second home. Among people he trusted, and felt at ease with. People, who if given an opportunity would certainly put the world to right. Or so they believed. Sort out all these tiresome issues, that forever filled the newspapers and daily radio news reports.

Slowly he walked upstairs to find a quiet room together his thoughts. He needed to be alone. He stood in the darkness by the open french windows that looked out onto the quiet street. He glanced at the quarter full moon, in the late evening sky, and considered where his adopted child might now be. He noted the expensive vehicles on the clean, tree lined street, outside the expensive houses, and considered had it being a wise move to allow his adopted son the freedom to live as he pleased. What did that child really know of England, and the ways of the west. Brought from the ragged and poverty stricken streets of Kampala, Africa, to the unforgiving streets of London. Innocent and pure. Raised with Gods love by his Mother. Expecting so much from his new homeland.

People know people. After quiet some time contemplating alone, remembering. He made a phone call to the Embassy. He spoke to the military attaché, and old friend from a time long ago, when he was a different type of man. He briefly explained the situation, and accepted the condolences of the Military attaché. But revenge and retribution of the most savage and violent type was what he wanted, and asked the Military attaché to use his high level connections to ensure, discreetly, that the perpetrator’s of the crime were brought to justice, the South African Way. Quietly, and out of sight of police and interfering politicians.

He poured himself a straight whiskey from the decanter that adorned the mahogany bedside table. Enjoying and hoping the strong bitter taste of the liquid would fortify him over the next few moments. In the darkened room, he drank from the crystal glass, and dialed the number.

With hesitation, and pause for thought he slowly dialed the number.

His words were soft, and comforting.

‘Margaret, are you sitting down………..’

In the diplomatic area of Kampala, one of the few remaining well to do area’s of the city. Inside the gated community, behind the armed guards. She sat in the quietness of the evening on her veranda overlooking the vast expanse of bush that stretched out before her. The sounds of the many wild animals, unseen but heard, making their presence felt.
She recalled memories of her only son, and the many happy times they had spent together. How he had spoken of his plans and dreams to travel. The medical career he had planned, and his determination to use those skills for the poorer people in the townships, who were left to fend for themselves, by the many.
She had listened to and encouraged his honorable aspirations, and wondered how London was turning out for him, and had he perhaps met a nice woman.

The jangling of the phone ringing in the lounge disrupted her thoughts.

Her screams echoed throughout the large house, like a wounded animal caught in the most brutal of traps. The servants altered by her screams ran quickly to her rooms. The large breasted African housekeeper, whom she treated as a surrogate Mother, moved quickly to her side, as she knelt on the floor, weeping, sobbing and shaking. Held her gently in her arms. Comforted and soothed her as best she could, under the circumstances.
A human in pain is hard to witness at any time. But the searing pain a Mother feels for a child, unfairly taken from this life, is something else. Those screams of distress can cut through the hardest of hearts, and last a lifetime in one’s memory.

In the weeks that followed it did not take long for that call to come through. The efficiency of the South African security forces had always been top class, just as he remembered them.

‘ That delivery you requested has arrived, and is ready for collection at the embassy ‘.

The phone call brief, and to the point.

‘I’ll come and see to it this afternoon’. His response just as brief, and businesslike.

He sat back in the leather armchair, behind the dark mahogany desk, which he never liked. Among the shelves lined with books. Many of which he knew he would never manage to read, let alone, understand. Still, he assured himself, it would impress some of his clients.

He was unsure how he would deal with the package. He was still grieving. A very restrained, private type of grief. Not noticeable to others. In his former life he had seen the most brutal forms of death and destruction, and could not, would not allow emotions such as pity, sorrow, regret to intrude and detract from the job at hand. He did not allow himself to indulge in analytical, searching questioning of the methods and motivations he used, and the reasons for such.

But this was different. This was family. His family, albeit an adopted family / child. The distress of his wife was very real. That child, her child was cruelly and unfairly taken from her. He knew she stood once again on the precipice, and would not be surprised if this event would see her slide back once again into the bottomless, empty abyss of her addiction. Sobriety or relapse, only time would tell. Whether God, or her cohorts, or her own strength would save her, it was hard to say.

It was not too long since their attempt at procreation had led to that still-born child, whom she still grieved for. He on the other hand, had brushed it off, as a fact of life. The way men of a certain caliber are able to do. Their childless, cold marriage they were expected to endure, rescued in part by the adoption of the young boy. Now a young man, making his way in the world.

But focusing his mind on the issue at hand. A crime. An unfair, unjustified had been committed and had to be punished. Revenge, retribution was only right, and fair, and to be expected. It was what he expected, no, demanded of himself. He could not….

The ringing of the desk phone, disrupted his thoughts.

‘Will you need your car and driver this afternoon’.

‘No, that’s fine. Give him the afternoon off’.

The drive from his office, close to Parliament Sq to the South African Embassy, took him through the better parts of London. Gave him some time to turn his mind from his problems. As he drove, he reflected on how much London had changed in recent years.
The massive influx of the Eastern Europeans had to be seen to be believed. They brought with them an air of hardworking, industrious efficiency. Serious and dour, seldom seen smiling. There energy had changed London, and not for the better. The physical attractiveness of the Eastern European women, was some, little compensation for there cold and austere demeanor.

In the quiet road away from the thronged busy, wealthy high street, the cameras watched silently, as his car approached the embassy gates. The gates opened to allow his vehicle access. There was the perfucntionary security check just inside the gate. Although polite, and dressed like well to business executives, the security guards exuded a undeniable aura of seething violence, cruelty and brutality, just beneath their thin veneer of civility.

‘Welcome Back, Sir’, one of the guards offered. He pointed Edward in the direction of the building at the rear of the embassy, and managed to smile in anticipation of, perhaps some secret knowledge of what lay within.

 

 

 

 

 

Empty Life

daniel-jensen-763633-unsplashPhoto by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash

Empty life, gambling urges, coming on strong
Yes, I give up, I give in, your stronger than me
I cannot resist, this urge I have to feed
There I have done it, I have gambled, I have lost once again
Why dose it feel so wonderful to be back here again
What’s the psychology of this disease
Where I find no peace, nor contentment until I deplete my finances
I will struggle over the next few weeks, all my own fault of course
Don’t you Pity me, don’t you do that
My choice’s, decisions by my own hand
You can never win, at the casino’s, take my word
No matter how inviting it looks on the screen, and the possibilities they offer to entice
Don’t you be drawn int that abyss of misery, worry tension and concern
Cause that’s where it is leading, when will we ever learn
A very temporary release from life’s distress, disappointment, bewilderment, and frustrations
But they will still be here tomorrow, but you like I, will have a lighter wallet
While those on the other side, will laugh, smirk and live it up, at your expense.

Life Without a Partner

jordan-steranka-616004-unsplashPhoto by Jordan Steranka on Unsplash

Do you ever question, why are you actually living
What’s it all about, it’s a mystery to me
Lurching from one empty day to another
Is life not expected to be better than this

Potential love partners turning away
Before a fella has a chance to have a say
Impress them with my wit, my brain, my intellect
Look here sweetie, can’t you see what you could be missing

Do I seem that desperate, do I seem that keen
Trust me sweetheart, I ain’t overawed by what you may offer
Would you meet the standards I have set in my mind, for a partner I may entwine with
Are you more than a pretty face, are the characteristics that matter
Actually in place. Kindness, generosity, patience, loyalty, discretion, sanity and more
How about you convince me, you got them by the score
Then maybe I would look you way, try you out for a day
See if we hit it off, see what future we may have together

But what if all you meet, are semi aggressive potential partners
Who show little interest, just an obvious disdain
That one may perhaps be a burden, and I ain’t sayin a pain
But that’s the general thrust of the reaction I am getting
From the people I meet. I wonder what the answer is
To this dilemma I  twist in my mind

I am searching for love, companionship, compatibility and peace
Am I to live my life out, single, lonely, certainly not meek
Am I being punished by some God up above
What’s going on here, why can’t  I find love
I have so much to offer, I’ll see you right
That’s if I can find a suitable partner, I’ll help you through the night

The next day, and life itself, as we move on together, I’ll see you right
What is the answear, I dont know, maybe thats why I’m feeling so low.

Blank Space.

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Photo by Geran de Klerk on Unsplash

He awoke, finally. Another uncomfortable, barley slept night. A thirst, that no amount of water could ever quench. In the darkness he lay on the bed, listening to the silence. Slowly his mind began to clear a little. Images of the previous few days passed through his mind.

Acquaintances, strangers. Alcohol, pubs. Airplanes, city lights. Heavy traffic. Laughter. Dancing, darkened nightclubs, Thumping music. A mishmash of images and recollections, fading in and out of his memory. Brief and unclear. His head was heavy. Stomach empty and aching for food.

Never again, he promised himself. It’s just not worth it. Never was. Foolish, inane,  conversations, with forgettable, ridiculous people he hardly knew or cared for. False camaraderie and human closeness. A brief interlude from an empty life. The paranoia as usual was ever present, greatly exaggerated by the copious amounts of alcohol.

His memory was patchy of the previous few days. Unsure how long it had being this time. One evening, a few days, or maybe a week or two. He knew the gaps in his memory would eventually be filed. He made his way to the bathroom, unsteady on his feet, tripping over en route. The bloodstained light coloured carpet, of little surprise to him. His bloodied hands, unexpected. Through bloodshot eyes, he glanced at his face in the low lit bathroom mirror. Sickened, and angry at his own inability to control his addiction. He quickly looked away. Dried blood on the newly scratched scars on his face and neck. He slapped himself hard about the face, encouraging this dream to end. He threw water on his face, to awaken his consciousness.

He again checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Still the bloodied facial scars. He looked at his hands. His body was tense, and tightly held. His fists clenched. Swollen veins protruding through his muscular arms. His once lean and trim torso now beginning to show the signs of alcohol abuse. The unsightly swollen area covering his liver. His stomach losing its muscular definition. He watched himself, through narrow, piercing, angry eyes, the veins throbbing either side of his head in the bathroom mirror. How had his life come to this, he asked himself.

Snippets’ of angry words, surfaced in his memory. Screaming, tearful, hysterical and  pleading. Thoughts and a determination to avenge her disrespect. She would be made to pay. He would see her weep, and be distraught, and only then would he be at peace. He would take from her, what she had taken from him. He swaggered from the bathroom like the wealthy, powerful successful man he was. He had not finished with her yet.

‘Come here’, he demanded. ‘I want to speak to you’. His loud voice vibrating around the house.

He roughly opened the bedroom closest to him, and slammed it closed loudly when he found it empty. In his disoriented hung over state he found it hard to navigate his own home. Doors appearing where they did not belong. Rooms not where they should be.
Like a savage beast intent of finding sustenance, he marauded around the first floor of the house. Again he tripped over it, on the way back to his room. This time switching on the landing light. He looked down at the bare leg protruding from the door, and followed its shape as he pushed open the door to the room. The cream coloured silken nightgown that covered the body, was torn, ripped. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she moaned softly. The bloodied nose, bruised ayes, matted hair, she lay at an awkward, unattractive angle.
He did not recognize her at all. Cursed himself quietly for drinking so much. He searched his mind for recollections, which were not forthcoming. The light from the landing illuminating the scene before him. The upturned chairs, clothes scattered untidily on the floor. The overturned, broken child’s cot. The non moving, non breathing form on the floor. He moved towards the child’s form on the floor, noting the blood matted hair on the back its head. Turned it over, and recoiled from the slightly tinged small blue face, and obviously broken bones in its jaw line. Congealed blood visible under the innocent skin. Thankful it was not his child, but also fearful and afraid.
His breathing now rapid, heartbeat thumping hard in his chest. Perspiration forming on his forehead, back and above his lip. Images of police officers. Court cases, vile newspaper headlines. Prison, for ever.
Standing up, now energized with the adrenaline pumping through his body, his legs shaking. His mind screaming and begging for it not to be so.
He quickly returned to the bedroom from where he came, slipped on his crumpled jeans, and a white t-sheet. Searched underneath the bed for his shoes, and ran down the stairs and out of the house at speed, leaving the front door open. Into the still dark early morning, he ran. Along, somewhat now familiar streets. The shock helping to clear his mind. He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could. Pass the other detached houses. Down the tree lined streets, with the expensive cars outside. In the early morning, birdsong echoed softly.
He could not find his way out of the large, select cul-de sac, passing the same properties, again and again. He stopped outside a detached house, exhausted after his intense running, breathing hard. That dark Mercedes looked quiet familiar, with the sticker from the French holiday campsite on the trunk. He moved closer toward the car in the driveway, the gravel crunching under his feet. Peered into the backseat, at the two property magazines laying there. Further examined the the front passenger seat, and the child seat, with the recognizable rag doll toy, resting on it. The security light from the house, activated by his movement, illuminated the area.

She opened the front door quietly, and peered out. Recognizing his, rather disheveled appearance, she marched out in anger. In the cold morning air, her breath was visible, as she moved closer to him. Her baby daughter on her hip, crying loudly. He continued to peer into the front seat of the car, leaning on the car roof for support. Breathing hard, and gently weeping. Thankful some memory was returning.
She moved closer to where he was leaning on the car, and glared and him, taking him in fully.

‘What have you done’, she snapped at him. More an accusation, then a question.

Her face contorted into an ugly combination of anger, disgust and fear, so close to his. Her screams were loud, piercing, in the quietness of the early morning.

‘What have you done’, again, she screamed.

‘Look at your hands, look at your hands. They are covered in blood’.

 

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Written in response to writing prompt : ‘Trying to make sense of the events of last night’.