WASTELANDS

SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE... 

The rancid Queen scowls
On her decaying throne
Of brittle-dry bones.
A realm in bloody chaos;
Us peasants drinking in the pain. 

The kindly King? Sickly. 
Sour reward for age and indulgence.
His ennobling, enabling nature
Approved a new reign of terror.
And now? Eaten alive. 

He spends gentle days wasting away
Like the fisher-king of Carbonec; 
The foulness of his fat tumour
Reflected in spasms of hatred
Throughout the putrid land. 

No chosen one? No miracle? 
No Perceval? No Galahad? 
Don't you trust the storytellers: 
Life's rarely as romantic
As they - or we - would wish. 

Without a beacon, I stagger
Boozily thru the stinking streets;
My throat dry from anger
I hesitate to state:
"Long live the Queen." 

Tyranny always ends? 
We can only hope for hope. 
Now, I do all I can: 
Placing one trembling foot
In front of the other.
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BRUTAL SUNDAY SUNSET

'UNDER FIRE'

Why
Can I not treat myself 
With the kindness 
I show to my friends? 

Why 
Is my grief, anger, anxiety 
So relentlessly shameful
In my own mind? 

I do not like
Asking these questions,
Let alone contemplating 
The merciless answers. 

If circumstances were different
My mindset would be A-1 Healthy.
But they're not 
So it's not. 

SCREAM silently; 
Lie to those around me: 
A bad but effective way
To limp to the end of the day.

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

Cruel summer; nearly ended. 
Home truths? They're here.  

Too much toxic stress 
Freshly squeezed into too few weeks. 

Psychological abuse? I know now.
It's right here in the family. 

Late last night, exhausted,
I looked into the mirror. 

A hushed, tender voice
Spoke softly in my mind:

You're a long way from home. 

What's meant by this? 
Something I need to work out.

But, in spite of blog absences, 
I'm here to stay.

 

 

CELESTIAL CORRESPONDENCE

Dear Buffy the Blogger: 

-- You've not blogged (or read blogs) for a while? 
-- You're feeling bad about it? 

Well, don't worry. 
Here's how it is (just my view, y'understand, but then again, I'm bloody clever):  

-- Your absence stems from mind-fog. 
-- Your mind-fog stems from agony. 
-- Your agony stems from anxiety. 
-- Your anxiety is a result of fear, OCD, some depression, and (last but not least) continuous psychological abuse from those too physically close for comfort. 

Give yourself a break, will you? 

You've not lost your inner strength, and the following things will return in time: 

-- Calm.
-- Clarity. 
-- Self-regard. 
-- Blogging mojo. 
-- Outer strength. 

And, even better, when that blogging mojo returns, you'll be able to express your thoughts on what's happened during this bloody cruel August and, hopefully, be able to help someone else. 

No worries, matey... 
YOU. WILL. BE. FINE.

Sincerely, 
The Angel on your shoulder. X

 

DRIFTWOOD

'NEO-MISANTHROPE BLUES'

I see you drifting; 
Drifting away. 
Far away. 

I'm moving away from you; 
Still standing firm
On my slice of driftwood.

Am I one for groups? 
I'm not follower, nor leader. 
Am I one to 'belong'?

I'm not always comfortable
Revealing the full contents 
Of my overcharged mind. 

I'm content this must be so. 
But at the same time? 
Truly devastated. 
  
Do I belong elsewhere, now?
A dilettante Diogenes 
In a cabin made of driftwood?

 

WHITE HORSES

'INELUDIBLE'
 
I can't see the tidal wave 
But I know that it is coming. 
I can't hear the tidal wave 
But I know that it is coming. 

I can't prepare, or hide from it
But I know that it is coming. 
I don't know when it will arrive
But I know it will be soon.

Soon my mind will be haywire:
A dark, chaotic miasma
Of brutal images and feelings
Will obscure my view of the world.

The minor considerations of life?
They cease to contain meaning.
The tenderness I feel for others?
Mostly frozen in stasis.

I hold tight to my small fixations
And to my minor eccentricities;
They're not much to be proud of
But I feel they're all I have.

I try to calm my mind and body
Aware that trying is not enough;
I know the tidal wave is coming
And my fear holds supremacy.