The Zombie and the Saint~
She walked in a disjointed gait
down a dark desolate street
thigh highs taunt and tight
on a withered frame
hollow and desiccated.
Held together by a tight black
skirt, and laced corset.
I approached to ask for a light.
Her dispassionate gaze
crawled over me, a hunger
was there, undefined.
Dull, Defective, Defunct
I shrugged, and moved on.
A cold hand clutched
as claws dug
into me, desperately.
I looked to her eyes
and found a light
Bright embers burning
And took her home
she take me?
I will never know.
But should I really care?
For she saved me.
She was my Saint.
by Philip Wardlow 2015
I will never figure her out…nor her or her…nor him..nor them
They are not of my planet. Their culture is otherworldly. Their customs are strange and alien.
I am an X and they an O
I do understand their motives to obtain their desires and their exclusion
of my own status quo.
That has always been clear.
I have my own.
But what drives that core.
What drives their internal combustion engine?
Is it DNA, a cellular imperative, concocted in a biochemical
or is it causality brought on with a sting of a whip
or sweet taboo kiss in the dark.
Either way there is an invisible mark
traced upon them
Informing us both in no uncertain
terms stay back
by Philip Wardlow 2015
I often sit and just think about what formed “ME”
What led to “ME” . How was I formed? Why do I function the way I do?
I like trying to understand myself as I am sure most people try to. I do it also to become a better writer. I believe if I can get to the root of me then I can get to the root of that character I am trying to develop.
I am big on being “real” with my characters. So many books I have read have stilted unrealistic dialogue action, and plotting just so they can get the character to the next page.
What’s my character?
I remember my father vaguely because he died when I was barely twelve. The one thing that sticks out in my mind about him most was his quiet silence.
I call it a quiet silence because it wasn’t a disgruntled silence or silence that had a point to it. It just was. There was no malice behind it..though perhaps there was a little sadness at times in it. To me it always seemed a calm acceptance at the way things were or had to be.
There were one occasion where I really felt this silence within him.
I was about nine years old and my mom had thrown one of her epic “tantrums” I call them now. Plate throwing, iron skillet flying , cussing, and flinging of insults and telling of all the wrong doings done to her by him, my father. And there my father stood in silence, one hand perhaps slightly raised in defense to any imminent flying object which may come his way. The knot rising like a mountain already on his head of one plate that had connected with his skull.
As my mom often so did when she would get this worked up she would flee. In that fleeing, she would collect up my two brothers and I in a whirlwind and drag us from the house, our home, to stay at a friend’s house, or a hotel far away for a short to extended stay of days or weeks or even months at a time.
My father would sit there in his silence and just let her take us knowing she would return sooner or later, until the next time of course.
But this time had been different.
As I was being tugged out the door by my mother (because I was always the pokey one) my father suddenly reached out and grabbed my other hand and pulled me back.
So there I was, a human piece of rope being tugged by my parents. She pulled then he would pull back….
I remember my father distinctly looking into my scared tear filled face and asking quietly if I wanted to stay with him.
I found my mouth wouldn’t work. I couldn’t talk.. I could say neither “yes” or “no”.
My mother overheard the question and then asked me in a clipped tone if I wanted to.
For some reason I found it in me to answer her…and simply said, “Yes.”
She abruptly released me and left with my other two brothers. Gone.
For the next days or weeks, I really don’t remember, it was just him and I at home. We hung out , we talked in generalities and funny things that only a nine year old boy and a grown man could talk about.
I don’t remember the conversations or any of the activities we did. I do remember being content in that short amount of space and time with him. I saw his contentment as well.
I remember he seemed a little less silent when we were together during that period. And even when he was silent he seemed to carry his silence a little differently when we were together. Lighter , is the only word I can put to it. I had come to realize he had needed me to stay….
I was happy I had said yes…
How many women really own their sexual side…demand to be seen…demand satisfaction..I fear not enough…
Intimacy can come in many forms and it could be with a woman, a man, or nature..and it has but one definition…an intangible soft closeness.
Bright eyes, bright smile, an open heart and a passionate wanting with a wicked way..that’s what I like in you….may it never change.
Certain friends have always been imaginary, only daydreams…flits of movement at the edges of your sight. that’s all they have ever been
We are all shrouded in the skins of our choosing since our inception.
Lost eyes following a lost heart down a trail of stolen bread crumbs
There are riots in me at times…and they burn and break and pillage through the city that is me
by Philip Wardlow 2015
I am confused but not confused
I have clarity
In all things
But I am muddled
In all things big
And what matters?
You say THAT matters
He says THIS matters.
She says I matter.
We say WE matter.
When no one does
And everyone should.
And get struck hard with the paddle
Back to the other side
YOU cannot hide
Because that paddles a coming
That about sums
I will just sit here and smile
like a marionette
with a painted on grin.
Shall that make you happy?
Nothing is wrong.
I’m smiling just for you.
Aren’t I a good little boy?
Why should there ever be anything wrong?
Yes. Yes. Pat me on the head
All is fine in Whoville.
Why talk when
you can just
live in your own world of favored
opinions that works
just for you.
Judge me. Throw me away.
I have no friend.
I would hold your hand as you
walked through hell.
But you would kick me there
just to not be offended by
my presence you have already
deemed unworthy of your
I guess I didn’t rate.
I guess the present I brought to
the party was found wanting
from the rest.
I guess I thought too much
of a friendship that was never
by Philip Wardlow
for I did not know you as I had surmised;
and smiling in the corner
were merely a rippling
by Philip Wardlow
When I read any book by an author I like to read the Author’s note and any forward they may have written. I personally like to get a sense of who this person is that wrote this book. What made them tick…so below are some of the things that might give you perspective into who I am and who I am not perhaps. I don’t know, I will let you be the judge. I for one hate self analysis because we lie to ourselves more than we lie to others. Perhaps you’ll see something in me that I don’t see myself…
My mother had me when she was 29….my father was 59 at the time…He died when I was 12…He was 72, the age a grandfather should be.
Often my mother would leave our father at the drop of a hat..taking me & my brothers away…we lived in 18 different homes growing up.
Security seemed to be a liquid state to me as a young child…no solid friends..no real home to speak of…life always in transition.
My mother signed my older and younger brother up in the Big Brother Volunteer program at the local college…me I did not get one. She believed I was the adjusted one and didn’t need it I guess.
My older brother William participated in sports and played a musical instrument at school. I think I wanted to but was never asked by my mother, besides money was tight and he got first dibs.
I don’t really like my family.
I love them but I don’t LIKE any of them…in certain ways I am sure they don’t like me. I am not perfect. I have quirks and issues I am sure, that annoy the hell out of them….your typical dysfunctional family.
I WANT to like them. But as I have gotten my life together in some semblance of normalcy they have still not to one degree or another. So I AVOID them if I can because its a DRAG.
Am I selfish? Should I feel guilty? At times I do. At others, NOT in the slightest…Blood is NOT thicker than water at times. AT TIMES you need to live for your self and be selfish….I had to learn that was okay.
I am forty-three…
I hate my age…
And not for the reason you think. I hate it because I really started going after what I really wanted in my late -30s…which is as you can see is Writing…
I try not dwell on the almost 20yrs of wasted time of not pursuing it….”OH the things I could have written in that time” flow through my head at the oddest and most inconvenient moments.
But I shut that annoying voice out and carry on.
Also at forty-three I wish to stay in shape ..so I work out on a constant basis. I have a sucky metabolism so I must.
I work out to look & feel good for myself, my wife and any lady passerby on the street who wants to check me out…:)
I didn’t always think I was a handsome person. I kind of had an ugly duckling syndrome. I grew up with a gap in my teeth and because we couldn’t afford to pay for an orthodontist, so the gap stayed . We also were a poor family that didn’t have the ” cool” clothes or stuff so I was pretty much ignored by other kids at a certain age.
I still have the gap but wear better clothes. My wife and others have convinced me that I don’t look hideous. I will take their word for it.
Seriously though my confidence has grown over the years with that. (still have trouble with big smiles in pictures..so I look mean or stoic or something half the time in them)
I always like a compliment….who doesn’t. So go ahead tell me I’m cute I can take it…:)
I think I will wrap it up here for now….perhaps I will share more of myself in later posts….now you know just a little more about me. I am going to go relax and read a good book now.
You give him a grin
and forget it all when he
grabs a breast.
He smiles that same stellar smile
that trapped you so long
You sweat it all out through sexual labors
all the moments meandering
in the frontal lobe of your brain that aches
to cut him loose and send him downstream
to go cascading off a cliff.
Yet you play the martyr to his Mussolini,
tied up and tortured in the town square,
while all the passerby’s look the other way.
Doesn’t become you.
Defiance should rule.
But yet you grin all over again
when he grabs your breast.
Philip Wardlow 2013
Orb bright over head,
Naked we lay…tanning.
I kiddingly ask if I can lay the palm
of my hand on your ass
and just leave it there.
I tell you casually while the sun bakes us,
that we have about another 100,000 yrs
of evolution to go before we stop believing
the bullshit we speak now.
Dark clouds move in as old Mr. Nimbus blows.
A storm is coming…hopefully it only
blows away the shit we don’t need in
Feeling melancholy again I guess.
I get lost in the fantasy, because the reality of it all,
is so much different than we suppose.
Fantasy….Reality? Each one has its place.
Haven’t decided which of the two is
We grab our towels as old Mr. Nimbus spits on us
and go inside to have nice a cold beer .
Philip Wardlow 2013
“Why ME?” she asks
I don’t know.
Because you let me in.
Because you’re a good person.
But most of all because you’re so full of despair.
…and I have a sword.
Philip Wardlow 2013
Above three poems originally featured in an online publication called Boyslut – http://boyslutpublications.com/
He watches her. She watches him.
The dog , he watches nothing.
Their eyes can’t hide what lies beneath.
A tilt of the head, a downcast look tells
me all I need to know about their inner
They hate. They love. They lust. They laugh at
Is there sadness behind that smile they
Some hide from each other.
Some hide from themselves.
Some hide simply because they can.
I wish I could see all the dreams buried
deep within their heads.
Dreams which they’ve never fed;
maybe a doctor, a lawyer, or a whore,
maybe a pretentious pious little bore.
Their thoughts are hidden;
a landscape of dark shadows and fog banks hung
I watch it all unfold.
They can’t keep it hidden long,
for like a cauldron bubbles, spews, and spits so
does their mind emit a gurgling of regret, a wisp of
weakness, or a hiss of hysteria in its’ attempt to lament.
I watch and I wait for it all to unfold,
for the hidden to be found and the found to be told.
I’m a spectator to the grand affair which is hidden within.
So know that when I look at you or you at me,
I will see you, see you indeed.
By Philip Wardlow 2012