My introduction page as a writer trying to get publsihed and a collection of posts showing who I am through ancetdotal musings about my life or how I am inspired to write or why I write and how I write in my own wierd little way.
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
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 trees clinging.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I love recalling the past of you when we first met, when the Universe nudged me into you, I remember your first smile, shy but sly, your first laugh, full and inviting. your body as it danced, swaying and in sync with my own. I remember your eyes looking at me with a lust of a thousand lovers, then later with love like a thousand poems I don’t want to forget the first time of knowing you and everything that pulled me into those eyes, running. I want all the songs that are ours to wrap up around us every time you walk into the room I don’t want to forget you the first time.
Because those first times always bring me home to you and I love you all over again just like the first time.
She can be full of fun and frivolity
or a chaotic mixture
of intensity and crazy passion
all in one day.
She may travel a trail in the
dark dark woods
wanting to be pushed against the rough
bark of a tall tree
as the sun peeks
as I give her a kiss on her pale freckled cheeks.
She’s exasperating as a girl can be with
adventurous
ideas such as she.
But I wouldn’t trade her for the world though,
for my own world pales next to her
and all her lovely curves, from smile to almond eyes, to her hips divinely held in my hands, oh, and her heart, her heart, the loveliest curves of all.
She is the softest of the softest, a woman that needs to be touched, she is a bundle of wanting that compels me to please her, every day, every hour, every moment that transpires.
I don’t wish to let my curvy girl down, to fail her, to not show her she is everything to me and more.
I adore her. I love her in so many little ways.
I want my curvy little Red always to adventure with, laugh with, & travel the many ways of this life for ever and always.
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 