Ah melancholy you, melancholy me.
Twins of pains throughout our separate travels
in lands and time blown away by great
distances and choices right or wrongly
made.
You clutch dearly to your past like a child does a doll
all tattered and torn since received from her inception
from the womb that bore here into this world.
Myself in that journey I took. and of which
I am still on, I fumble in my pockets, fiddling with the
loose change of memories I have always kept close
and collected throughout time.
Both predilections in the way we cope in our
own entanglements are either
a solace, a penance, a nuisance, or
constant curse.
Why not us both seek a new habit?
You throw down your doll
I shall let my change fall
through my fingers as I grab
your hands tight in mine
and continue
our travels
together.
by Philip Wardlow March 29th, 2022
To and fro we go in life and all its pains collected along the way.
In the beginning, a Tango, feet sliding down the floor,
full of exuberant steps of youth with a crazy devil may care.
Never tiring, head up, steps sure even if we fuck up
with every other step made.
We are in motion, forward or back ,we are in motion
and that is everything to the youthful
whether in body or the heart
it is everything.
By Philip Wardlow March 21, 2022
She loves me without question. Adores me in the fullest. Leaves me wondering what she sees in little old me.
This sweet, wonderfully funny, bombastically beauty of a woman with her chameleon like gorgeous sexy, flourishing soul that beguiles me from her red hair to her dainty toes, from an arc of an eyebrow to the sway of her luscious hips in play, she always seems to get her way with every delicious day I find myself with her.
I have the clover, the horseshoe, the rabbit’s foot, and shooting star all wrapped up in her.
She’s my lucky charm I hold tight to, that magic that I delight to.
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
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.. 