Fête

Amongst the idée fixe

incroyable Jack

puts on his Mac

and searches in the rain

 

He sits down with Jenny

to spin out a penny

a coat of tales

that might turn heads

 

They think him Montgolfier

a puffed up balloon

filled with airs and graces

a powdered buffoon

 

But fair miss Clotho the Fate

still turns at her spindle

spick and span to allocate

all those Cunard berths

 

Sitting in Versailles

at his triptych of glass

he sees dressing table reflections

of all the days yet to pass

 

He is all powdered wigs

and syphilis sores

tolerated and yawned

by all those he bores

 

And now his Lepidoptera life

has grown death as a moth

despite all the naptha

they put in with the cloth

 

Lachesis takes up her Toise

to measure standard yards

as he sings his soliloquy

to his image, deafened  by cards

 

The ones he drew on lucky dip Lotto

to experience the exponential silence

with all the longevity of coffins

and its harsh and unbending violence

 

Yet now the apropos of Atropos

stands with scissors and knife

she waits for that moment

to cut short the darn of his  life

 

Strung out on a wire

a simple hanger for clothes

bent and moulded

and darkened with woes

 

Incroyable Jack feels it so

that sharp asymptote of today

spans the vast chasms of tomorrow

No, no matter what he does say

 

And while they all sit to split hairs

none has heard a single his breath

which goes round all 45s

a Colt, the last cylinder death

 

Life throws him googlies all Impatiens

where the every last of desiccated dreams

is petal pressed between pages and bound

and stitched and ironed in all of the seams

 

And now his garment

has near worn away

The Moirae are happy

and turn off the candle of day

 

Incroyable Jack packs up his bags

no Euromillions for him

just a penury and a poorhouse

to take square on the chin

 

And when the Acheron calls

out comes both his last shillings

to pay for his little terminal trip

and now Oh Boy, is he man, willing

 

The dice that he long ago cast

were not ever meant to long last

so now incroyable Jack finally leaves

and still no, not one, no-one, believes

That Pendant Penny

Oh my sweet Lord

What if it finally

Finally dropped

What then?

 

How would I hold,

Hold my brains in

Before they splattered

round the room?

 

Where is the string

The duct tape

The antigravity field

It must not drop!!

 

Those decades,

Each year

No, It cannot!!

it must not!!

 

Damn that pendant penny!!

Karma and Denial

Bearing in mind that Karma, loosely defined, is the causal effect of words, thoughts and deeds, there are very many who do not, nor will not, accept responsibility for their actions. They deny the possibility that such a thing as Karma exists. They, in effect, choose not to see how their behaviour impacts upon the world and carry on as if they have the right to do exactly how they please, as and when it suits them. Isolated in their all important world they see themselves as separate from it, where it should do their whim. Even when they start to suspect this orientation is not entirely accurate, they persist in it. They are mostly in denial.

Karma chips away at denial.

That great stone bastion of denial is difficult to shift and even the most obdurate of beings has moments of regret, where they wish they had acted differently. This is because outcome is undeniable, how this outcome is reached, is subject to interpretation. In the face of outcome many dress the path to this outcome in ways which paint themselves not responsible. The apportioning of blame to others is one of many strategies beings adopt so as not to face up to, what it is, they have done. The stories they tell become ever more convoluted. People strive to be Teflon coated, rare is the individual who holds their hands up.

Denial is both a sprint and a Marathon.

People rush to deny, absolve and extricate themselves from responsibility and often go;

“Phew, I got away with that….”

They do this to others and to themselves. Put in other words, people lie to themselves. They are so accustomed to doing this that they may not be aware that they are denying. Yet at some level all note a slight jarring each time they do it. The level of that jarring fades as people become ever more inured. They even deny that jarring feeling. Yet underneath a discomfort or dis-ease simmers away. Continued denial leads to loss of self worth and a lowering of self esteem. People seek out more and more escapisms so as to run away from that which they are denying. They often self medicate to dull things out.

Constant denial can lead to crisis.

If things are suppressed and buried for long, pressure mounts. Instead of the mild discomfort which might have come from taking responsibility, the being can precipitate a genuine crisis.

Karma then, by simply being causal effect builds a case against denial. Slowly and persistently the outcomes mount. The significance and scale of outcome, escalate. If the being does not take note and change their ways, the snowball effect continues.

Denial causes Karma, which prompts more denial; more Karma accumulates. Eventually denial is untenable.

On a mountainside there are few who can outrun a snowball as it bears down upon them, even fewer who can escape an avalanche. Beings are often in a rush to deny and escape from their accumulated Karma; Karma however is rarely in a rush, it has momentum and keeps on going, forever. Once something has been caused to move, it does not stop. If you are ever stuck on a snowy mountain and an avalanche starts, there is little point in trying to deny the reality of the circumstance, in which you find yourself.

In our current blame culture denial is a knee jerk reaction for most. Little thought is given to the stamina needed to perist in this denial and posturing. For denial often opens the doorway to further mistruth and misdirection. The being then has to keep going all the way to the finish line, the coffin. Most though run out of steam long before the grim reaper knocks at their door. Their Karma catches up with them, their now untenable denial fades in its surety and some semblance of clarity penetrates their deliberate obfuscation. Not only have they not taken responsibility for their actions but they have lied about it to themselves and others. Such Autumnal thoughts rarely bring ease to the suffering being as their years here draw to a close. They realize that they have SPENT much of their lives, denying, running and lying. Karma has taught and maybe, these lessons carry on into a new birth, one less stubborn and deceitful.

Denial, even in the face of death, is stupid. Karma has marked you and you are not reborn with a clean slate. As the vehicle is vacated it no longer has the power to deny and whether the being likes it or not, it is shown, and in Technicolor, the outcomes of all its actions, words and thoughts. If you don’t learn the lesson in this lifetime, then sure enough in a subsequent life you will, maybe after having faced many lifetimes of denial in between.

Denial is a form of suffering!

Living a life in denial does not ever bring bliss, nor peace, nor happiness. Denial creates tension and stress. The being may not be fully overtly aware, yet that tension is real and present, in all who deny.

Has denial ever brought me a long lasting sense of well being and peace?

Has it uplifted my beingness and that of those around me?

 

My Ferric Justifications

People can talk themselves into and out of pretty much anything.

The trouble is regret is as slippery as an eel and can sneak through the bars, the bastions, of reason.

—————————————————————–

With the rusting bars

of those ferric justifications

my dreams they rot away

so reasonably confined to cower

 

Each nail bashed home

with the Mjölnir mind

resounding thunderous home

to pin my hopes to the page

 

Each slant, every twist

slams prison door shut

to echo along death-row

and no reprieve from the guv’nor

 

All that alleged sensibility

cuts razor blade the skin

whilst my heart bleeds

unnoticed tears, into a bucket

 

And when the bell tolls

I shall empty the slops

of all my reasonable reasons

which did treason to my love

 

The painted corner of my cell

surrounds me so perfect tight

as all my gaveled demi-truths;

my Soul does forever swallow and choke

 

Would that I could vomit

most visceral up

all this heinous bile

I feed myself and to others

 

Within the rusting bars

of all my ferric justifications

my dreams they rot away

reasonably confined to cower and decay

The Style of Denial

There are somethings that we are unwilling to accept or believe or even countenance. We might take our denial to the grave with us rather than accept.

——————————————————–

At the style of denial

I will not cross

however sweet the meadow

 

On the barbs of defense

the razor wire bastion

amongst empty mud of the a-void

 

And were you to rub

my nose in that pile

I’ll bite your hand, in thanks

 

There is no force

the universe through

can make me, admit

 

The rats and corpses

of my deepest trench

are my earthly recompense

 

No lens, no revelation

can heal my cataracts

most welcome and familiar

 

For should I crumble

the merest of an inch

that gilded cage implodes

 

Until they box me last

this stance my living rigor

my mortice lock, my dance

 

I will it e’er maintain

for ‘tis there I dare not,

cannot, will not go

 

So do not ask me

before the cockerel

to even start, it to acknowledge

 

In the style of denial

I will not ever cross

however sweet the meadow….

It Cannot Be

Finally, that gravity

Catches the penny

But

It simply cannot be!

 

I won’t allow it

 

With all my

Telekinetic power

I forbid it

To drop

 

It mustn’t register

 

It shall not pass

Knútr inn ríki

Will turn the tide

Of possibility

 

It is unthinkable

 

The implications

Are too profound

To accept

Rebut, deny, pretend

 

unacceptable

 

But what if it can

And it does

And is

True?

 

What then?

that which we love

and beyond the veneer

truly, madly, deeply

a direct resonance in Soul

in a place

where no one else can see

 

so private, so secret

 

this is what we

push away

because we cannot control

feelings,

such as these

 

so scary, so real

 

the bastions of pride

makes ramparts high

to repel

that which we love,

and, with burning oil

 

so unsure, so trembling

 

and the ache of it

a chasm in being

for want of fingers

touching across

a void

 

so yearning, to be touched deep within

 

to spark electricity

shocking as thunder

barbed wire beyond

all the minefields

on a Christmas day

 

a denied hint of promise

 

soon the varnish

paints itself

a corner in,

as icy cold

as winter’s reason

 

so safe, so nothing

 

that which we love

must always be

stranger unto us

because it is

safer that way … …

Une vérité qui dérange

L’écureuil cherche avidement

Les noix cachées

Ses mots qu’il a déjà dits

Il y en a tant

 

Dans le brouillard de temps

Il a beaucoup oublié

Il blâme tous les autres

Les doigts comme les épées

 

Il chauffe l’huile brûlant et

Aiguise ses histoires élastiques

Avec un verre d’advocaat

Il est devenu plastique

 

On ne pourrait jamais accepter

Un colis juste comme ça

Madame la factrice

Je ne suis pas chez moi

 

Même s’il reste

Sur le lit de mort

Il peut tricher Dieu

Qu’il n’a pas du tort

 

Les mains aux oreilles

Pour les protéger

Au cas où ils vont roussir

Les mots de la vérité

 

Le singe de sagesse

Va nier tout car

Le boomerang prodigue

Jamais retournera

 

Les poings fermés

En grinçant les dents

Il n’avalerait jamais

Parce que, parce que

 

Le sage lui a donné une pelle

Pour trouver ses noix perdues

Et il creuse á l’Australie

Parce que, parce que

 

Le maçon en pierres

A finalement écrit

Sur sa pierre tombale

« Il avait toujours raison, parce que, parce que »