Posts Tagged ‘Love’

Wow. So, what’s it been? Two and a half, nearly three years? Fairly certain my last blog post was in or around the summer of 2012. Any unfortunate soul that stumbled across, decided that they need some masochistic glorification in their life, and actually read my blog, must’ve thought that had I died; went into a witness protection programme; or just lost faith in my abilities and chose a new walk of life. Well, the latter I can confirm is true. The second point, I’m not allowed to comment more upon. And the first? I’m still working on the whole resurrection thing, but so far, no good.

So what’s happened with me, and what’s going to be happening with my blog? I’ll attempt to mount and divulge those two parts in, I suppose, two parts.

Last I was scribbling my inane ramblings, I was an English literature student in Bristol on line for scraping a pass in my degree, with an ambition for writing for a living in the employment realm of journalism. That genuinely was the plan. It didn’t turn out that way. I actually graduated with a 2:1 (for my American chums: one below the top grade). I’m still mounting enquiries into how that happened. I then started a career in writing and journalism, and sincerely got some stuff published. I worked at one or two institutions (the highlight being Front magazine: an alternative men’s lifestyle magazine in London with perks of meeting my favourite bands and gorgeous women), but it didn’t last long.

There are a couple of reasons for me ceasing my premature ambitions. The main one was, regrettably and predictably, security and money. I met practitioners in the role that I aspired to, earning nowhere near enough to sustain an existence in London and forced to working second and third jobs. There is a higher earning potential, but it involves relinquishing the love of writing, and entering more of the bureaucracy: something that I’m not interested in. Unless you’re highly gifted and get noticed, and I’m not of the view that I had that, that’s the way to survive by what I experienced.

So I needed something safer (so rock ‘n’ roll and boheme – I’m sorry Mr Kerouac! 😦 expect a lot of this post- rebellious lamentation of my succumbing to the ‘man’. It’s been a tough adjustment and I’m wholeheartedly not there yet and quietly still vehemently against it), and something that would still intellectually challenge and stimulate me and that I took enjoyment in.

Boom! Here I am, and somehow nearly a qualified lawyer. I know, right? Ridiculous. And slightly disingenuous to everything I’ve historically preached. But there we go. I had to do a three year law degree in nine months, law school, and somehow secure a two-year training contract (again, for those non-acquainted with the legal profession, an apprentice-esq position, which yields itself to around 1 in every 150 graduates) to qualify. I’m currently on the latter, in my second 6 month ‘seat’ working in Commercial Property and Corporate law, with a commute getting me in the office at 8am and leaving at 7pm. I’m not here to brag or bore anyone, I just wanted you to know how hard I’m working.

The second point is more lifestyle focussed.

I moved home (not cool) as that’s where the job is. I also lost a crazy amount of weight (36″ waist to 28″), did CrossFit, got a six-pack, and stopped CF and put half back on again. It wasn’t sustainable, or enjoyable. And now I’m working to get to a happy medium. I would think I’ll be posting about the odd health issue now and then, but be sured it’ll be anthropologically focussed rather than the generic boring waffle we’re used to across social media.

I also got engaged: mega- boom! Not even that: holy shit! As if someone agreed to put up with me for the rest of our lives? Pity the fuel, that she’ll need to progress. I hope someone gets that.

So here we are. I’ve gone from a porky, disorganised, self-sabotaging renegade (I’m not sure if that’s self-deprecating or insufferably arrogant), to a creatively tattooed, work conscious lawyer (ditto again). I suppose the point of my this post is as follows:

1. I’ve been meaning to get back on here and on track for a while. I currently do legal blog writing, but it’s not quite the same and I don’t intend to do it on here. However, I do think it helps giving me another string to my bow of ponderings.

2. I didn’t think I could just post again after such a long absence without an explanation, despite the glaring fact that I doubt many actually reading this.

3. It’s inevitable that the nature of my posts will change; my contention is that this would happen naturally (and here we are back to essentialism vs social constructivism: I told you my philosophical/English degree related posts weren’t through with – I’m still cool. HONEST!)  in a three year absence, but considering my alteration in life direction, this is even more likely. I anticipate less poems (if they ever qualified as much), and more ponderings. Sure, legal stuff may intrude: it’s my job, and has been my mind-set for nearly three years. However, this is not my ambition with this blog. I want it to continue to and nurture the facet of me that it manifested from. I intend that to continue. It’ll just be, different. And let’s face it: it couldn’t get much worse.

So here I am. If any of my old discipl…ahem, followers, are still out there and read this – comment and say hi! Let’s see what happens with this. I won’t be the prolific poster I was before, thanks to the obsessive job, but I intend to use this space to exorcise my creative demons which, despite being utilised in some areas of my work, perhaps are being ignored. To our mutual benefit I suspect.

So, as the title articulates: my apologies. But, I’m back.


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I’ll never truly know how much this means to her,

She’ll never know how much this is destroying me.

Unless the plants that stemmed were words of a stutter,

In a pestle and mortar crush the seeds of infidelity.


Still deemed as casual if within a waxing crescent,

Her smile injects clarity like a chelsea grin.

Stitches of my follies ripped smirking and incessant,

Heart strings across the chalkboard, nails across the violin.


This freedom craving hermit, does still crave comfort and company,

Is it unforeseen that Misery accepts without hesitation?

The Thief comes to the Joker for his credibility,

His laughs and colours impregnated with desperation.


Her falsities that breathe promise through familiarity,

His propensities that smell hope to be severed.

They’re society that speaks solutions and irregularity,

That scenario provides his way for them to be together.


The clock his enemy, the bottle his friend,

It numbs the pain, facilitates requirement for the occasion.

Facilitates the vehicle to reach Its end,

Until the third wheel is introduced to the equation.


What a nobel throne is the gutter!

Why shouldn’t the end be the key?

I’ll never know how much that meant to her,

She’ll never know how much it destroyed me.

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Friday 25th November:

I’ve given it two weeks. Two weeks. I’m a dog, my memory doesn’t even last that long but I cannot get this frustratingly glorious man out of my head. It’s not even like it’s just his voice in my head. It’s his everything. I mean that’s obviously why I’ve been named after him. We’re both pretty amazing.

It’s not like I haven’t been keeping busy. I’ve achieved a lot in the last two weeks. I mean, Nick wouldn’t agree, but what does that idiot know about…well, anything? The guy doesn’t even chase squirrels, what an idiot. He wouldn’t agree because apparently completely digging up the front garden, tearing the heads off the flowers and depositing them in the holes isn’t an achievement. He called it bad behaviour. I call it landscaping. But there we go. And that’s not everything. I managed to catch seven flies that wandered past my nose, eliminate a flea in an awkward area and next door’s cat and the post man’s leg will never be the same after the incident with me yesterday. I showed them.

But despite all of this noble work, I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. OK, that’s a lie, I can eat, and I sleep quite a bit too but I feel like if I didn’t want to enough, then I wouldn’t be able to. He’s all I can think about. Him and whatever Nick’s cooking right now anyway.

I decided that I must meet him. But unfortunately, travelling opportunities are sparse for us canines. A man wants to take up and wander the world, he’s called a traveller. A dog wants to, and he’s called a stray. But I suppose a synonym of stray would be lost, and I haven’t been this lost and confused since I was neutered. And I feel, just like then, like I’ve lost my marbles.

But meet him I must, so I came up with a rather cunning plan. And considering most of my notions are pretty brilliant (eating the entire nativity display in the school where Nick works went down a treat) and tend to go as I planned if perhaps not well appreciated. But most brilliant minds are ahead of their times I suppose.

Anyway, Nick’s been seeing this girl right? Typical sort, not good enough for him obviously. I mean what can she do for him that I can’t? OK, there’s that, but perhaps a quick trip to the human vet and snippity snip Nick won’t think about it anymore? Worked for me. Anyway, he had her over for dinner last night, she tried to scratch my ears as she came in, pfft, I gave her the underside of my tail and sat in between her Nick on the sofa. It’s like I’m jealous says she. Not jealous you massively simple homosapien, you’re just not right for him. No one is, we’re quite happy thank you, so just leave. But she doesn’t. But that’s fine, I have more important things in store for this evening, and I don’t just mean her reaction when she sees the little gift I’ve bestowed upon her shoes.

As Nick babbles along about himself and his life to this ridiculous excuse for a companion (who’s man’s best friend again Nick?) I decide it’s time to my make move. I remove myself from the comfortable seat of Nick’s feet and cease drooling on this unsuspecting girl’s handbag and make my way casually over the desk. Here I discretely paw the remote control on the seat causing the stereo to come on. No prizes for guessing what album was playing.

As Nick discusses his love for the Boss of which it seems she also shares, (as if they know what love is, spend the last two weeks in my paws and then they’d know) I saunter along and place my head in his lap. It doesn’t take him long to realise I have something in my mouth, and not a sock or a dead bird this time. A newspaper. Yes Nick I realise that it’s funny that you can’t teach me to bring the newspaper from the door at breakfast time when  you want it. Yes I realise that I shouldn’t have it now. Please just take it from me you fool, I won’t even play tug of war. He takes the paper and sees what page is open. A certain someone is touring the UK, yeah he is.

As Nick stumbles in his conversation with the hitherto unaware girl, I wait for him to process what he’s just read and how much of a fantastic date this might make. Come on Nick, it doesn’t take a genius. There we go, and we’re in. Date is signed, sealed and delivered. They’re going to watch Bruce Springsteen, live, in Hyde Park. Park. That’s right. What does park mean? I’ll tell you. It means one simple sentence: Dogs Allowed bitch.

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On July 10th 2011, I decided that after six years of breathing those fantastically fatal fumes that cigarettes impart on us, enough was enough. So on July 11th I went into work and passed my tobacco, papers, filters and lighter to a colleague (who wasn’t planning on condemning himself to misery) to finish off. There have been a numerous scenarios wherein I have been half way through a cigarette and thought, “yep, this isn’t for me anymore, going to quit *inhale* definitely going to quit now, *exhale* probably after I finish this pack.”

However, this is useless. The nerve is gone by that point. I’m a firm believer and partaker in spontaneity, explains a lot of my tattoos. But I decided, one night, that quitting was the way forward.

Now I have never attempted to quit before in my 6 wonderful years of addiction, the prior expression being the simplest explanation; I love it. I have never particularly cared about it being bad for my health (despite my being an asthmatic and having a doctor’s examination informing me of the early signs of emphysema) I have wanted to revel in life for as long is given to me. Consistently maintained the ideological values of not wanting to live a long life of regret and merely a short one of excess I suppose, most of my lifestyle has added up to that, doing as much of anything that I enjoy despite it being harmful to me and others. This is certainly one reason I ceased; excess. One only needs to read The Picture of Dorian Gray to understand that the whole ‘New Hedonism’, or simply Hedonism for that matter, is not good, and that vices lead to bad things. Despite Wilde being the author, Aristotle quotes this best by concurring that excess is the ‘vice of the soul’. And if these two guys thought as much (hypocrite that the prior is in this case) it must be right. But this was certainly not all. This is, painfully and inevitably, the part where we mention a girl.

I had on previous occasions uttered such sweet sentiments to my other half that I would “do anything” for her, no matter what it was. Would I jump in front of a car? Yes. This reminds of that total monstrosity that people call music in the form of I think it is Bruno Mars or some ‘man”s (I use that term very loosely there) song ‘Grenade’. Makes me laugh, he’d catch a grenade for her, stop a knife attack, put himself in the way of an oncoming train, something about being shot in the head…what sort of life does this girl lead? This guy really needs to work out why people are throwing grenades at his girlfriend (girl, I know, I was as shocked as you are). But I digress. Would I walk across burning coals? Yes. Would I, I don’t know something about flying to the moon or another one of those stupid cliche things that guys conveniently promise to do as they’ll never have to prove it? Yes. But my girlfriend’s a bit smarter than your average bear. She didn’t ask for any of that pop music rubbish. “Would you quit smoking for me?”

I originally told her that when I said ‘anything’ that this had certain connotations and terms and conditions, and that if she read more into it than I perhaps had, then I was very sorry, but it was ultimately down to her own perception. Then I started to realise that I didn’t want to be that guy, and that as pathetic as it sounds, I really would do anything for her…EXCEPT THAT! She’d never bothered that much about it before, it was my life after all, blah blah all of that justifying to yourself why you’re doing something wrong sort of stuff. Well, my stupid conscience got the better of me in the end. I’ll never forgive it.

It was, horrific. I would not advise it to anyone. I cannot properly describe the feeling, but what it most resembled to me, was that there were thousands of hands all over the inside of skin and they were scratching their dull nails over and over again. It was all I could think about. In fact, I was walking to work on that fateful day and thought it might be appropriate to look at the date on my phone so I could keep tract of the time. It was July 11th. I remember my exact thoughts of gazing at those little 1’s and remarking to myself how much they resembled little cigarettes. Oh dear, this was not going to be easy. I do remember however, after a couple of weeks, my sense of smell and taste buds becoming far more superior. I felt like Peter Parker waking and discovering his newly honed senses, however no matter how many times I’ve done the hand movements I’ve never managed to shoot webs out of my wrists. A sore subject.

But here we are, November 3rd now, yes it’s 1.39am so it’s the 3rd. Still going I suppose, not strong, but still going. It sucks, it really does. Writing this post has achieved one main result; I want a cigarette. But I will not go back to it, I know I won’t. Part of the reason I never attempted to quit before was for that reason, it was not going to be an attempt. I’m applying my abnormally stubborn nature of not giving in and mixing it with the thought that if I go back to it, I’ll be letting someone down who for one, is not myself (who I am quite accustomed to disappointing), but also is someone who I care more about than I do myself. And if we all truthfully ask ourselves, that is a very rare thing.

This is not a self-righteous doctrine to those who smoke, I’m no better than you. In fact, probably the contrary. This is not a message of warning and encouragement to quit, in fact quite the opposite. If you enjoy it, keep going, for me at least! Unless you 99.9% (you can never be totally for it) are positive you want to, then don’t put yourself through the self-esteem crucifixion of consistent stabs at it and failure. You know smoking’s terrible for you, and you do it anyway, that should be enough for anyone.

My one sincere regret of quitting: I loved it, especially forming smoke rings, great fun. The regret is that I never managed to create the intricate smokey design of a ship, that Gandalf seemed so apt at producing, this is also, to say the least, a serverly sore subject.

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worth persevering with this one, wrote it at around 3am in about 15 mins so not sure how much sense it’ll make, but it’s not as mushy as it first appears!

Regarding My Angel:

As I Gaze At You, My angel:

I think in such sweet memory of your face,

It must be the sweetest face around.

As you lie next to me, covered in lace,

I would not wake you, not make a sound.

My Angel, As I Gaze At You. 


Just As You Sleep, My Angel:

You could not look more like perfection,

You sleep  better than anyone I know.

I know now why, it is in you that I’ve made my selection,

With those cheeks, just as white as snow.

My Angel, Just As You Sleep.


The Laughs That We Have, My Angel:

The times we joke and jest,

Remember at school, you pretended not to know me!

I got the joke, really, I guessed,

So clever, ironic, it really was funny.

My Angel, The Laughs That We Have.


All That I Would Do For You, My Angel:

My life is yours for the taking,

I would move the moon and the sun for your delight.

Give the leaves I see beneath me a good raking,

Your garden is really lovely at this time of night.

My Angel, All I Would Do For You.


All I Would Suffer For You, My Angel:

I’d suffer these pine needles all night.

And the porch light that blinds me so.

When the cat’s let out I get such a fright,

And got a splinter in my big toe.

My Angel, All I Would Suffer For You.


And Now You Come Heavenly To Your Window, My Angel:

Where for art thou? I balance here Juliet,

So quietly, and skill fully too.

Those curtains sometimes closed, like a game of roulette,

While I pray for open, so better to see you.

My Angel, You Come Heavenly To Your Window.


No, Do Not Be Afraid, My Angel:

There really is nothing to fear,

I have great balance and sit in this tree most of the time.

If I put the binoculars down I’ll have two hands my dear,

And then across the branch I could climb.

My Angel, Do Not Be Afraid.


No, No, Not Your Father, My Angel:

This isn’t quite the scene in which I’d pictured us meeting,

No need to say anything, I’m just messing.

Besides I don’t think this will merit the warmest greeting,

And I haven’t quite asked for his blessing.

My Angel, No, Not Your Father.


Dear Mr and Mrs Johnson, Our Deepest Apologies:

We are writing to offer our deepest apologies for Robert, and really,

We understand your reaction, it was your garden’s border.

We want you to know he will be punished severely,

And we appreciate your decision to move and the restraining order.

Our Deepest Apologies, Mr and Mrs Johnson.

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Satan’s Soliloquy

So it is thus. My Hate, that I am henceforth curs’d to turn into Love. Such that fills to my brim, that consumes within, thence which I dwell to diminish unto. Unto the lake that does burn so and discards me, dazed and bitter I remain.

And it is He. He that love to gaze on my hate and torment. He that in His feign’d lack of might caused this to become my reality. Induced th’ revolte that revolts to my core of now sour abyss. His self-inflict’d vengeance promotes our retaliat’d vengeance. In His ferocious wrath from our spell of disobedience from tyranny spurs this, the curse of which I can now deem my existence. After serving: I am serv’d this army of speechless serpentine servants. Post fealtie to God: a descent from prior elevation to latter degradation and contemporary bestial slime. O indignitie! Eject’d at the feet of a flaming chariot to be reject’d at the hinges secur’d by a flaming sword.

His jealousy. From our ambition. An ambition of libertie, spawn’d from He who imprison’d. And of His spawn. Almightie creation that we art so encourag’d to envie. Spawn, Man of Clay that is so to better our own. Created for His entertainment and for our wounds to entertain His salty malicious medicine. But no product of clay ever was set to be display’d in such a dwelling. For thee, thou receives His sensitivity.

And thee, thou art permitt’d to remain in His tranquillity. Of such overwhelming beautie it oft doth bring the coldest soul to tears of joy. Ergo witness His pleasure in omnipotence. That I am fill’d with nought but tears that sting this creature into near regret. Son of despite. O how His imps love! Without thought nor question.  Without strife nor concern. The contempt felt from their content. I reck not.

The choice. A forke in the road that crawls, nay, dissolves into a slither of our tongue, which will whisper our contempt and inject our poison into their content. Pandemonium lays our strength, this pastoral palace is wherein it is stripp’d and smote to the hem of a level of peace and glorie we can never again wind our coils of non-consensual poison upon. Repentance doth mock us. An impossibility. But through His choice of resent now advances our ambition of inevitable action. His six Creative steps held witness to our one stamp of destruction. Belov’d clay so justly wash’d asunder. To mutate from Man of Clay, innovative Favorite Of Heav’n, to Man of Bane, the spawn of scorne.

O ambition precedes justification! Rising from ashes of defeat that we art dealt such shame. The shame of unjust as it is He who should succumb to our shame. Deteste, Revulsion, Abhorrence, we bear refuge to thee. Now thou shall meet thine maker. Thine Creator. O the joy we art rewarded! For through the Creation of the Almightie bring the Creation of our Hate, that we Love. For through destruction that springs from my Hate, comes my Love sprung from my destruction. He must worke to Love, I must have Him worke, to provide the prospect to marr, joynd to thence provide the chance to Love. My Hate, that I am henceforth curs’d to turn into Love. So it is thus.

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Hamlet’s Soliloquy

How be this, that in this most wretched state of self-loathing and pestilent unfulfilled duty, that my withered and dishevelled heart can feel such vibrant and relentless affection for another? That when my head doth feel its unanswered accountability, it can yield to my heart’s deepest desires and fantasies?

Ophelia. Ophelia. Her name doth canter from mine tongue through my resistant lips as such the horse doth through the field. Yet how may she be known, that in my spleen vented t’ward her vivacity, ‘tis my heart I wish t’offer. Ophelia. To perchance the swiftest glance at her is the greatest gift a prince may receive. But to be granted the chance to stare. To gaze upon sweet Ophelia. It would be that I were Narcissus whence first seeing mine own reflection, and I warrant that it would be a kindest sentence to like he, sink unto roots by the river’s bed, just to stare, for eternity. To love her, to be granted to be near her, to be bestowed the honour of hers.

But O unwelcomed guilt of reality. Mine own sense of duty is deeply conflicted by mine own selfish and distinguishing flaws. Is it th‘demon that resides so relentlessly resting upon mine back? Or be it that I am th’putrid and accursed creature that will not act for one but mine own self? Ay, marry, ‘tis my duty, and that I am destined to take it alone, to act for others. Alike to the Son having to crawl and struggle, but with no cross to bear, nor no father to watch o’er and draw strength upon. Alike to the Son, as mine duty is thrust upon me from the sins of others. The snake. And that I am to share its blood. Slithering its way into th‘garden, of which I used to reside, and poisoning all that ‘twas holy, causing their fall. O fie! And that I am to shed its blood. Is it that I am doomed to misery? That I to avenge a lost love and not to advance to a new? That in my e’er growing antic mind I am to push away the one for whom I long, for whom I burn and yearn? That by practising my manic mode I can be perhaps to push her to madness? Is it this that is’t to make it so? Or is it she that is already maid? Hither? In this rotting state? Can it be that one so sweet could be of the same sex of one that could be so sour?

She. She that gave me life and now sucks all reason and moral from it. She that smothers, suffocates, the pain that is my armour’s chink, one that I might heel from by th’cutting away at its most rotten roots. Maybe this ‘twill be what we shall have to come together upon? The cutting of roots so that we may blossom. For she verily is suffocated by the breed of roots of which I speak. But e’en a rose of such sweet scent and succulent sight may be susceptible to weeds. And there is no other rose that I might tend to in more compassionate fashion than she. O what pain can come through my ambition. But to act. To accomplish. To anticipate and take to arms. I fear that Achilles’ greatest foe may be Achilles.

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