Surfeit sans sic-squalid spoiled sundered smorgasbord squandered serenity
Let me preface this synopsis of self with a poetic epistle (hopefully such reasonably nonrhyming license acceptable videre licet, this non-friction category) before delving into the heart of this bipedal hominid, the apotheosis sans earth, wind and fire depleting air supply and whip lashing the apathy annihilating will to live, thus forever suspending me as still thirteen and thirsting to taste and touch a youth untouched by fiery passion – so:
Despite three score
plus five birthdays elapsed
since exiting the birth canal
uber cataclysmic neurological
eruption would parlay
with forces of destruction
pell mell to rent asunder
psyche, an internal maelstrom
wrenched self worthiness -
pitting mine mien as blunder
bulldozing with razorblades
former childhood's end
wondrous glee raising suicide
quiet riotous ambition, a painfully slow
(self starvation) mine inexorable ride,
which chronological frieze kept hog-tied
and hide bound this one grown male
dredging haunting spectre – where
to be gratefully dead – within Elysian dale
youngest of me two female progeny
segued emotionally troublesome
twenty plus five year old
today April twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four,
cuz these lovely bones
triggered flashback to wretched tears
sans insidious roiling
jagged stone shredding/
thwarting desire to lyft motive to be alive
shockwaves extant to this day -
no matter long since
recovered from nose-dive
dog gone emotional, psychological
and social repercussions
hound me present mental state
indelible permanent scars
(per anxiety, herky jerky,
hokey pokey, panicky,
quirky tic) seem never to abate
try as I might to shake free
from the riptide affects
that drowned this boy to grow
he experiences an especially
perilous remembrance
of things past regarding
abysmal infernal woe
when thee second punim
o thine two lovely offspring
passed that milestone age
with nary a hint how her papa felt
life locked up within
his abysmal agonizing stage
impossible to forgive permanent harm
inflicted not only on self but searing pain
my late mother and
then living octogenarian father
whose angst this dada insight re: did gain
from bringing forth progeny,
which years eclipsed
at break neck speed,
whereby each special daughter
evincing greater sturdiness
akin to hardy weed
bound to surpass their dear ole dad
permanently branded with ghost
of Christmases past for never knowing
thee potential that burned black toast
and hunger pains even to this day frequently
blithely ignored as if still callous
tempted, lured and baited by hand of death
this grown man wished inxs to kiss.
Social anxiety (incorporating the alphabet soup of physiological symptoms i.e. clammy palms, heart palpitation, nausea, vertigo, et cetera) erupted to rent my psyche asunder and forcefully endearing themselves to my being (like dasher, dancer, Prancer, vixen, comet, cupid, dinner and Blitzen) with most every visit to college cafeterias, (an unpleasant effect explaining termination from the umpteen universities i matriculated), especially when hungry hordes (like madding crowds swelling the sea of Muslims practically stampeding their way en route the Hajj) clamored to be fed sustenance or spiritual succor respectively.
Never did this liberal minded scrivener get trampled underfoot, but he experienced physical manifestations entailing great discomfort probably on par with any devout pilgrimage to the holy shrine of Mecca.
Within the labyrinth of this mortal being i.e. christened matthew scott harris, hid unseen live, googly-eyed, earth-linked, mailer daemons that resounded with a quiet riot chorus of their unheard yahoo kindling the trip wire of damned perspiration, laceration (stinging tips of metallic whips and chains) induced hallucination prodding sphincter muscle to go into overdrive vis a vis via defecation, (irritable bowel ran rampant) creating one wreck of a human abomination kept in check from any unsuspecting observer.
This general figurative broad-brush stroke pertaining to the collective soul wrenching episodes does an injustice to panic attacks.
Best for me to winnow thru the quagmire of countless instances to evoke emotional explosion in an effort to engender comprehension, fixation, interrogation (pardon the hyperbolic exaggeration fueling this assay wantonly craving super) layman preservation, than zeroing in on a singular instance.
Little effort required for me to dial back mental chronology and pluck one generic panic attach festooned with the usual attendant coterie of kindling internal microscopic killing machinations swaggering like hotmail fresh off the field of a winning team.
Meal times at college (particularly with the madding crowd of voraciously famished coed undergraduates), the most frequent settings outbursts generated feverishly essentially annihilating any ambition to enjoy a normal peaceful repast (to satiate hunger), the most common environment envision a generic college cafeteria.
About twenty years ago (two decades spanning mine some total of fifty six birthdays plodding through the pernicious plots per me world wide web) represents the most recent non-voluntary foray into the field of dreaded descent into the domain of all out internal combustion, whereby attrition into no mans land of wretched undulating spasms quaking ole matthew knocked immunization generally enjoyed clinging assiduously to hibernation, meditation, self actualization as self sedation.
Eyelids now temporarily closed to re-envision the nada so salient salad days whence the feeding time instantaneously transformed into frantic frenzy at Kutztown university. While most all other student feasted on the ordinary industrial chow, i felt the grippe ketchup and override excruciating hunger. Adrenaline coursed thru this measly dry mouthed body (starving to savor the institutional haute cuisine.
No sooner did this then rather bony gluteus maximus became situated at the table (often whereby a quick exit could be made in the predictable panic stricken outcome that pierced and hammered me with gut wrenching agony), the medley of organic constriction of throat re: named near asphyxiation, furious pounding of ma poor heart churning out hormonal secretion sans flight or fight, strong sensation sans regurgitation (despite the likelihood my bowels recently purged per diarrhea courtesy of irritable gastrointestinal stress), disallowed even one morsel to appease thine palette.
Much as waste not want not the coda, ethos, general integrity keeping afloat my dogma, that credo went out the window (with or without the baby and bathwater – plugged pulled so no infant drowned, nor any other animal harmed in the making of this mindful video), the tray of uneaten food left for an employee to discard.
Complete discombobulating disorientation (in tandem with the tried and true trademark tell tale signs of tumultuous ferocious fracas re: Tony the tiger witnessed personal pandemonium, which violent trigger, nonetheless did offer a scant few minutes to gather peanut butter and jelly sandwiched haphazardly slap dashed together, whereby to escape this jam.
Cumulative episodes whence tumultuous shell shocked warring faction repeatedly played itself and affecting escape from this perilous perdition.
The shoals of home (which appeared sweeter than ever) specifically sighted when sitting with pangs of stomach churning aches to eat instead delivered a sentence whereby this anguished author felt himself severely lashed and slavishly held within thine fragile self witnessed withdrawal from campus life (for the umpteenth time) and hence avoidance became the coping mechanism.
Fast forward to the present. Now a cornucopia of pharmaceutical medications keep in check (akin to a mate) and put a lid on susceptibility toward chaotic sensation run amok.
This collective soul (whose esprit de corps rose from thine Heiress house of the rising sun) in fits and starts finally seems closer to psychological nirvana.
Now, now longer does a led zeppelin manacle this Renaissance man from the culture club. He scales the Ashbury heights of ecstasy via pharmacological panacea. He feels indomitable emotional strength to haul in the oats of a misspent youth.
What if I Like Hell?
When I die to go to hell, will there still be fire? Screaming? Pure agonizing pain? What if I love to stare at flames, feel myself burn and scream in pain? What if I love the heat and how there is no cold touch to it, will it change for me?
When hell comes to me and it's dark and cold and I'm alone with my thoughts, what will happen if I enjoy it? If I enjoy the pure darkness where I can see nothing, what if I like how the cold bites me numb and lets me become warm just to freeze again? What if I like staying with my thoughts alone, nobody to talk to?
Does it vary for every person who goes down there? Or are some in pain while others laugh with joy as they scream and burn, as they freeze and think? I really want to know.
Dissolved in mist and absence
I awake
my heart
aches
literally
squeezing
in my chest
pressure builds
brain pounds
tears flow
but why
i don't know
till
a flash
on the phone
shows the date
today
he'd be
78
instead
he's just
dead
a photo
in an album
in a frame
on the shelf
a story
remembered
a memory
of a hug
a smile
a moment
shared
now
gone
growing
ever more dim
for he's
Dissolved in mist and absence
an absence, light as the skin of a child
There, far away,
Where oblivion dwells.
Cod fish and Bocce Ball.
I never felt anguish when my grandpa died.
I had been buying outfits for my Club Penguin avatar as I had just typed in the code for my monthly membership using my mothers credit card. There were so many rare, seasonal options! I had never had to make such a difficult decision.
"Taryn?" I hear from the doorway. My mother had the door hooked behind her hip, leaning heavily against the door frame which struck me as odd since she knew this was my designated Club Penguin time. She never bothered me during this.
However, I feel something in my stomach coiling tighter with every crick of my neck to face her. When I see the devastation on her face, I swallow against a dry mouth.
"What?" I force out between anxious chitters.
She doesnt posture. Offers me a slight tilt of her head in apology, or honour maybe even. "Grandpa died."
I think whatever coils around my ribs must squeeze and burst. Because the heat of heartbreak flushes through my veins like a saline bag. She means my fathers' father. She hadn't been close to him, though I know she loved him.
I nod, turning back to my penguin with its pair of sneakers adorned that don't seem as valuable as they might have. "Okay." I respond quietly.
She leaves the room after a few minutes, knowing I need to just be alone.
I don't cry. I never have for him, in the decade since. Not out of a lack of love-- but I was too young, only 11. I couldnt comprehend death, or losing a grandparent. Instead, I sat there and paused my game, thinking about the last time I had seen him the year prior.
He ordered fish and chips for his wife and my dad and I-- we each got a fish so insanely sized it still shocks me 10 years later. The fish was double the size of the dinner platter, absolutely revolting in its oil and grease. But I ate it anyway along with the fries more deep-fried batter then potato, and grinned at my grandpa with teeth full of white fish shrapnel as he suggested we play a game of bocce ball.
So, no, I never felt anguish for my grandpa. His memory was far too happy, jovial and kind for that sort of pain to mar his memory.
salmon of the stream.
<>< <>< <><
sweet slow summers,
shy skittish kisses by the swing set,
picking and skipping rocks by the shifting stream.
the soft petals of callow youth fall silently on oblivious grasses.
time has no patience.
how your bloody clock hands are choking me!
now your summers are begging,
and your kisses are begging,
and the stream is crying and burly.
and i beg of u sweet summer water,
let me swim upstream with the spry scarlet salmon,
through the salty blue pacific,
slip by the frothy currents,
and sleep eternally in silky grey sands of innocence.
Chapter 19: Secrets Spilled in Darkness
Finding the doctor wasn't as hard as Gareth had feared. With Wren to guide them, now back in his disguise as Dr. Connors, they found him easily, tied up and gagged in a broom closet, only a few doors away from his office. The bonds were tied up in a sloppy way and it wasn't hard for Gareth to untie him.
Your hands are so big, Olban said. Are all humans in your world so... clunky?
"I'm going to ignore that," Gareth snorted, rolling his eyes. "My hands work just fine."
Only because the bonds are so loose. Wren really is rather incompetent, isn't he?
"Jeez, Eloise, no need to be so rude. Wren's on our side now, and he's helped us so far. Besides, wasn’t taming him your idea?”
Sorry, Eloise said, sounding genuinely remorseful. You’re right.
When the doctor saw Wren behind them, he was stirred into a panic— probably because Wren looked like his doppelgänger.
“Uh, Wren, you might want to shift into a different form. You’re scaring the doctor,” Gareth muttered. “Man, this is gonna be a weird conversation.
Wren sighed.
“It’s too bad, I kind of like this form. It suits me.”
Dr. Connors moaned his dissent, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Wren shrugged.
“Ah well,” he said. As they watched, he changed from Dr. Connors, to a formless monster, and then into a middle aged woman with big ears and greying hair.
“Tina?” Dr. Connors whimpered, the gag finally off his mouth. “Why are you…”
“Relax, dude,” Wren interrupted, his voice now high pitched and feminine. “I’m not actually Tina. I just look like her. My name is Wren.”
“Oh,” Dr. Connors said, gulping so loudly that it sounded as if he’d swallowed his Adam’s apple. “I- I see.”
“Why do you have to be someone he recognizes?” Gareth asked.
“I can only shift into someone I’ve seen before. Currently that list is very short, especially with my memories mostly gone. He’s gonna have to live with Tina.”
“Gareth… what’s going on?” Dr. Connors asked, finally recovering enough consciousness to speak.
“Dr. Connors… we’re here to tell you about magic. Although it seems you’ve already had your first encounter.”
“M-magic? But, Gareth, that’s…”
“I know how it sounds. But you’ve seen Wren. It’s obvious he’s not from our world… and that’s why I’m here. In order to properly do what I need to do, I have to make you understand what’s happening.”
“Why? What’s… what’s going on?”
“You might want to sit down, Wren said with a dry chuckle. I’m sure these travelers have quite a story. After all, if the Nameless One wants them dead, they must hold monumental power.”
“I… I think I’ll sit down,” Dr. Connors agreed.
Is this a good idea? Olban asked. After all, this could be another minion. Wren could be leading us into a trap. Do we really want to reveal everything?
Olban has a point, Eloise says. I hadn’t thought of that.
Maybe just leave out a few key details. And whatever you do, DON’T tell them about the armbands. This kind of power is best kept hidden. Explain as best as you can.
“Jeez, you guys are so paranoid. Whatever, I’ll do it. I see where you’re coming from, anyway.”
“What?”
“Oh, just talking to myse— haha, wait. No use lying anymore. I guess I’ll start with that. Dr. Connors, I don’t have Dissociative Identity Disorder. The person in my head— well, I guess it’s people now— they are real, and they are both from different universes. Wren is from Olban’s world, and Eloise— she’s the new member— is from a world similar to mine.”
Dr. Connors looked completely confused.
“But… what… how…”
Maybe tell him to save his questions for the end, Eloise suggests. Otherwise we’ll be here all day.
Gareth continued, and soon he’d gotten the whole story out. Well, almost the whole story. Per Olban’s request, Gareth removed a few key details whenever he could, just to be safe. Dr. Connors, understandably, had many questions, and Gareth did his best (with help from Olban and Eloise) to answer. Even so, some confusions would never be cleared up. Dr. Connors, by all accounts a practical man, would never be the same.
And as Gareth and Wren returned to Gareth’s apartment, Dr. Connors got up and did something he hadn’t done in over a decade.
He went to church, and he prayed.
Gareth and Olban slept easily, but Eloise was trapped in some realm between consciousness and sleep. She couldn’t really be awake, because her host body was asleep, but she couldn’t sleep, either. It was a dangerous line, although Eloise had no way of knowing that. And in this blurred realm between dreams and reality, the Nameless One crept silently into her mind.
Do you want to know a secret, little girl? it’s voice asked, shrill and wispy in the fogs of Eloise’s fragile mind.
Who are you? Eloise called out. Olban? Gareth?
They cannot hear you, the Nameless One hissed, horrifying laughter emanating from everywhere at once. You are alone, Eloise, as you will always be.
You’re wrong, Eloise shouted. When this is all over, I’m going to go back to my body and everything will go back to the way it was. To the way it should be. Her voice broke into whispery sobs. All along, she’d been harboring her regrets, nursing her doubt, her anger, her pain. Why did I have to try and kill them? Why couldn’t I have just left it alone?
But are you certain, little girl? Are you certain that you will be allowed to return?
Of course I will! Olban and Gareth are making the rings to transport us all!
She realized her mistake a moment too late, clapping a hand to her mouth.
The damage had been done. The Nameless One now knew what the three of them were up to. And, worse, he knew about the rings.
It seemed to become a great snake in the darkness, curling tighter and tighter around her as it laughed.
Ah Eloise, said the Nameless One, his voice as raspy and dry as a snake’s hiss. Suddenly he sounded so much clearer, as if he were speaking right into her ear. As if he were more real now, more solid. So young, so naive… what are you doing here, in this world of monsters and magic? You don’t belong. You can’t belong.
Leave me alone, Eloise sobbed, her voice suddenly small and insignificant. Please, just leave me alone.
They plan to trap you in Olban’s world. Out of place, out of time. They believe you are a danger to everyone around you. A threat to the universe itself.
Eloise’s breath caught in her throat.
No, that… that can’t be right. You’re lying.
I am not, it said, almost sounding offended at the accusation. Why would I lie to you, when the truth is more damaging than any lie?
I refuse to believe it, Eloise cried. You’re wrong. You’re evil and you’re wrong!
The serpent laughed as it retreated, formless, back into the darkness and the mist.
Think about what I’ve said, little girl. And the next time you are alone and awake in the night, I will return.
Despite the violently churning thoughts in her head, Eloise found herself slipping, falling, into a dark abyss of dreamless sleep. Deeper and almost evil, somehow. The kind of sleep that felt like death.
And from the shadows of a distant void, an ancient evil laughed with scornful glee.
One of Many
Being one of many can make life everlasting.
Always chaos and wrestling,
As your sister's scream is blasting.
Never getting the bathroom
With four rooms one bath.
All trying to eat and catch the bus before your first class.
In school the children seem to be dressed better than you. No money for lunch, so a free lunch will do.
Home from school in the evening, chores need to be done. Do your homework and chores before you have fun.
Same routine until you're grown.
Now it's time to be on your own.
Get an apartment and pay your bills. Find a job that enhance your skills. A career is built on dreams and know-how.
Once you land it,
You will survive some how.