Tag Archives: #death

BLACK CLOUD

The same black cloud that rested over the field the morning after the mower put out the haystack floated over the tops of the silver-trees on the edges of the rose-garden. Through the silver-trees it turned slowly, lowering itself to the ground; and, coming to rest, settled again on the rose-bush, and raised itself high into the air to sniff the atmosphere. I should perhaps seem to be speaking about two roses; but they are not. The two roses I have in mind are of the same kind, but not to be compared. The one is a white rose that came out of a grey-green pot that lay for seven years in a drawer, which probably no one noticed or cared about. Its title is new, unknown, to many, and cruel; and its smell is not the smell of any known rose, nor of any olfactory attraction.

The other is a tall, straight, dark-red rose with a peculiar odor; but which is still admired by young men for its beauty, and in the old age of some is planted in the centre of their friendship gardens as a memorial of a lost love. Both are rare, and will always be rare; but the dark-red rose of the shadow of its twin is a seedling of an old rose, and nothing of its own. It stands tall, straight, and, in old age, very angular in the clover-field, in the darkness of its own cottage garden. Though it has lost all its fragrance, and every leaf of its branches is a stark white, it can still present a pair of great dark, shadowy leaves to a tender, young heart, whose troubles it used to inspire with its peculiar sweet perfume. That is its own, and it can never gain its other title.

It is a rose which grows alone, with one thing its sole delight:–the memory of a lover.

Next morning, in the garden, after breakfast, and after I had written a letter which I had forgotten to write the night before, I stepped back from the garden-wall, and looked over it, with its rose-garden lying before me.

The same, overhung, dull light as had filled it the night before lay thick upon the field, and sank, in the distance, through the silver-trees into the water of the stream. I could not see the water, or the island, but I knew that there would be no change. The earth and air were as heavy and thick as before; and there was no desire or intent to move or to stir; the nature of things had not altered.

The same cloud lay over the field and the island, and seemed to pass with the shadow, in the nearer atmosphere, over the path and over the garden wall, as it had before. I could hear nothing of human life; only I knew, all the same, that people walked in the distant streets of the town to and fro; the hollow claps of the shoes, the speaking, snatches of words, the idle voices of men and women at their workplaces–all these had ceased to catch my ear, and the silence that they engendered closed upon me; and I went back again to the only object which my eyes could make out in the darkness. The night before I had noted the footprints of the man who had cut the hay from the field the day before. He had put them carefully in a nameless direction, in the hope that it would be the path of the threshing-machine. I saw that he had only tried to follow the track that he had made; and, instead of going round the field, he had gone straight across it. That was all!

:: 11.08.2020 ::


TRYING TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

Is it a society of wicked liars?

Is it a race of contemptible malefactors?

Or is it, instead, just a group of people coming to terms with their lives in a different way?

A growing number of people are choosing to live—and die—without judgment, without the reward of popularity, without the flattery of public adulation.

Most people—without much fuss—are choosing to die quietly, often in comfort, not coughing up blood, losing organs, gasping for air. Rather, they do the things they like, they have their lovers, fall in love again. They experience as many experiences as possible. They have children, watch them grow up, let them out. They do the things they love. In fact, they do as much as possible.

Maybe they are only one of millions who will die this way, quietly, without much attention at all. But for those who read about the Swedish model, maybe they’ll read about this man who, when he was ten years old, decided to end his life when his family wouldn’t let him live the life he wanted to. Maybe they will read about one of the last people on the planet who were given the opportunity to kill themselves.

Maybe they will read about the first person.

Whether he knew it or not, it was Doran, the poet, who led us here. In 2020, when he was 36, he pulled his wife and a friend onto a commuter train in Paris. They sat at a table, drank wine, and ate wild boar with the train’s conductor.

After that, he had a drink with friends. By 2:

Then they all took colors all within their head. And they tried to say the unspeakable.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


OH BY THE BY

Oh, by the by — oh my
how i wept upon a sigh
gently flowing on my side/
knowing emptiness within
my mind\  Oh, by the by —
creating worlds within my
lonely mind — never touching
tender female skin:  always
kissing empty spaces and
aching to die.

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep
comfort.

:: 10.14.2020 ::

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep
comfort.

:: 10.14.2020 ::


AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF LIFE AND FLESH

Oh my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
  My head’s been wet with the midnight dew //   I’ve been down on bended knee:   Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.  He spoke to me in the voice so sweet. I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet \  He called my name and my heart stood still.

When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”
Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
My head’s been wet with the midnight dew — I’ve been down on bended knee.

Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.   He spoke to me in the voice so sweet
I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet.

He called my name and my heart stood still.

When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”

I’m a-listin’ to the gospel man
I’m a-listin’ to the gospel man

Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
my head’s been wet with the midnight dew.

I’ve been down on bended knee.
Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.

He spoke to me in the voice so sweet:
I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet
He called my name and my heart stood still
When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”
Just a whisper in the dark
Just a whisper in the dark
Could have been by any other name
You can run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Till you hear the trumpets and all the angels
marching.  It’s alpha and omega’s Kingdom
coming.

:: 10.10.2020 ::


LEVIATHAN DEATH SMELLS SALTY

IF you cannot sleep you have to swim

across that Ocean of dreams

smoke and trip upon wet seaweed

taking your loved one to town

   the seashell sings

but our human throats are too dry

  but we can cry

we cannot sleep but a strange

feeling up from the depths of

the seas see — we can surely die

f

ooli

sh  sh

apes

remind me of the throw down inside

the bone cave of all minds.

  a beautiful ship should come soon;

sadsadsadsadsad so finally i lost

it so completely bleeding upon the

white sheets of my sails.

:: 10.07.2020 ::


OH ANGEL

OH Angel! Oh my angel
who covers me!
my love my light my spirit;
for past pleasures i do not
grieve, not so: any perils
that gather near —
i’ve a broken heart that
gathers no great grief that i
leave behind — no thing
that claims a tear!
to breath upon Earth is to
merit heaven as if making
hell upon Earth.

Where Souls scorn! A pointing
finger through many a coming
year?

:: 08.12.2020 ::


AGING MEMORIES

it was 1493 when i, the little boy, ventured across
the hills toward Anchiano.
there i was found being thirsty and asked an old
man for water. He was Leonardo da vinci — he
said. My father taught me how to fight: my mother,
how to be gracious for a kind gesture.
i had never met a soul as him and he showed me
a painting and some notes. Asked if I was schooled.
No. Just in life to survive i replied.

Thanking him i left behind a remarkable
soul.

:: 07.25.2020 ::


LIFE BREAKING MY HEART (NATURE)

DREAMING closely i kissed nature
within everything and where it
was: dreaming i dreamt i was
back within myself
within a stain’d-spot
counting all the looks &
remembering all souls’ reflection
(is it all i wish to be?)
i find myself too afraid to
see. Dreaming delusions of
a storm of phantom numbers
where all beings die:
almost 8 billion years after
Earth ceases to exists —
is there any lamp post to see?
are the alley’s shadows all
you wish to be?
many wise hearts speak-spoken
so mysterious and fashionably
sensible you failed —
life breaks my heart.

:: 07.19.2020 ::


QUOD numquam accedit ad lumen aeternum (THAT NEVER GOES UNTO THE ETERNAL LIFE)

THAT HAS never approached the eternal
light of my Heart

as: Nunc rcm unguentorum,

relish the night as
when tears are not enough
the end is closer
toward a new beginning
than the fears recessed toward
that One who Always Lost
but ——> but not us.

:: 07.10.2020 ::


THE GREAT SMALLEST

i grEW into a GREAT
smallness’t
that walked the dangerous
forest of my carpet
i lost the lie of physicality
while dreaming this dream
of life —
no one truly sleeps
we are always HERE.

:: 07.10.2020 ::
smallnest is now a word