If I were to suddenly evanesce, to flee, to disappear, to run fast and headlong into the bright nothingness of the night, what ruin would find my absence? Would their be sick wailing siren calls of the once was reaching my soul's ears through the nothingness of me? I hope not. Not Wailing over me.... a tear or two will do, followed quickly with a laugh. But I do not wish to know the old world anymore after I am gone. Why dry up and go, if to only to still receive drops of the once-was in a teacup, to simply drink bitterly of. Remember me or don't, for I will not care as I lie afloat amongst the stars, dreaming of new things, new worlds, new excursions to catapult a frayed mind to healing, to repair a ripped soul torn asunder. Cry and smile in the same instant is all I ask of you if you do remember, for I liked to be missed in both respects. So I guess I do care a little at that. I believe in everything and nothing in this Universe and I would miss both aspects were I to finally fall into the abyss of what-not and possibly nothings. I enjoy the Everything of people healing of the cuts they give themselves and get, and its wondrously satisfying to partake in living in that magical epiphany of them I do not enjoy the Nothing, in the sense that they will continually scratch the scabs to bleeding every so often and there is no mop big enough, nor pail of water full enough to ever fully clean it all up. I am tired of slipping in their blood. The Everything of them is wonderful buy sometimes the Nothing of them becomes all too much. By Philip Wardlow Dec, 2021
Forest of pitch and gloom promise men carnal fortunes with a witches smile
Did you blink and miss floating eyes and toothy grin Hee, Hee, What a Fool
It stands in the hall one foot closer every night Door locked tight, Knock, knock
Dapper ghosts party Halloween is upon them drink, dance, and go Boo!
Name a monster some say and it's yours for life. Many may never know it's true name or nature yet they usually tend to make one up and ascribe to it all the foul attributes of hell. Why, they will be so proud of the monster they have invented as to shout its direness from the highest rooftops as they give it a blanket so it doesn't catch cold under their bed. All the while the real monsters slink and slyly wink as you share a drink with them over dinner along with friendly banter of the utmost esteem. by Philip Wardlow October 7th, 2021
When you are a child you are in touch with the old magic that rides the winds
in the month of October.
It's palpable, tangible, substantial in the air at night when the moon is
full and darkness descends and the cool winds blow through the almost naked
Often, you laid in your bed, blanket held high, tight just below your eyes, as you
stared at the shadows dancing, tapping just outside your window creeping,
because every sound, every movement, outside or in, was more
ominous in the enchanting halls that you called the days of October.
From one to thirty-one you knew you marched certainly to your gleeful deaths
under the blue shadowed sky cast by a vengeful moon that had nothing better to do than to spy on you as you tried to sleep a fitful sleep.
As a child, you loved to fear, but feared to know the full extent that your fear could roam
and go, but roam you did. And Fear always got the best of you, wide eyes and all as
you ran to your Ma or Pa.
Secretly though, even consoled, you loved the tenseness of that feeling,
that soul reeling fright, the goosebumps crawling across your skin at night.
You relished that magic, that what-if of awfulness lurking.
Life was alive in you. Breathing like a bellowed fired, and wanting to escape from that feeling was never a question truly ever posed
in the slightest.
by Philip Wardlow ~ October 1st of 2021
There is no greater story than us…
To meet during the chaos of our lives as the cruel planet revolved endlessly around.
The Universe said, “Here, take a look at this, isn’t it all you have ever wished for?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I replied inside, “she’s the type of girl I could love.”
From the come fuck-me eyes, to that open sweet smile, to those hips which told a future tale of open thighs letting me inside, from her warm heart to her internal heat.
When the Universe speaks, you better listen hard, for she may only whisper but once.
I didn’t blink, I didn’t turn away. I smiled back.
I saw her that night, fully. Her and I, laid out together for the next years of our lifetime and perhaps well beyond if the myths be true.
She was the one, she is the one.
From her eyes, to her smile, to her hips and well beyond.
By Philip Wardlow Aug 26th, 2021
Sketch me, sketch me, and I bet yea that you will not see me the way I wish to be seen.
Flawed and imperfect scribbles put down on paper, chaotic with no intention or care of staying within the lines at times. Sadistic selfish hard edges fading to soft featherings of delicious needs and wants at the corners of my contained fine lined darkened soul.
The eyes, the eyes, there is a beguiling light behind those shaded eyes, a light, a light, so fucking bright as to mesmerize, if you were to look too long, you would see everything, but most seldom ever do take the time.
Ah, but what is a sketch but a sketch?
A glimpse, a side eyed introspection. Am I not correct?
So there is no disrespect at not knowing the me of me when all the hours of my days and yours can’t be devoted to explore the why and where of us in all it’s full glory.
Perhaps though, that’s what keeps you and I coming back to each other over dinners, drinks and all some such.
To find the true picture in both of us.
by Philip Wardlow June 2021
Definition of cog. 1 : a tooth on the rim of a wheel or gear. 2 : a subordinate but integral person or part.
Round and round the tooth of me goes.
My path well worn in the rotating
pre-ordained woes of a day.
If I squeak, then oil me
so I shut up, for no one appreciates a noisy cog.
Push the wheel harder, so my momentum carries me away from thoughts that cause me to stray to the screaming in my head that always implores me to run the fuck away from this boring ass, numbing, plodding of a distant and dismal day.
I am integral though, I am integral
So thinks the cog in this spinning wheel forever at play.
By Philip Wardlow Dec, 2021
They say parents shouldn’t outlive their kids, but should an older brother outlive their younger?
Much like a parent, the older brother directs, and protects the course of the younger.
Unlike parents, the older brother can also be a partner, a fellow perpetrator of many a fun misdeed gone awry. That is where bonds lie deepest, where intimate secrets are kept and held between a kin closer than that of the mother or father.
Sharing of sins, and the punishment of those sins, sharing in the joys and adventures that is youth in its whole.
You share a core with that little brother that none may know. It’s unspoken but known to the bone between you two.
To the Bone.
It’s honored, it’s delicate. It’s something that always dwells.
So when you see your little brother, dismal and seemingly damned, fallen and fragile, raging against an unknown foe and miles from the place in him from where he was once was, you know.
Where in the core that you share, now only dwells despair, you weep, and you weep, and you weep in the silence where no sees, because a man doesn’t cry, they simply don’t.
You know you won’t cry as he lies in a casket, all dressed and prettied up. You know you won’t cry when other’s speak of him in passing or come up to you with a hug, and “I am sorry for your loss”
You know you won’t cry simply because you have already cried so much as bit by bit of your little brother was pulled from you, excised with a sharp knife, and put into a blender and pureed to mush.
By Philip Wardlow June 2021