thoughtlessness

Page Twenty                                 (copy)

sehnen posted on May 05, 2008 | views: 141 | Tags: poetryx, do not thinkx

it’s monday, 5 may, 2008    greenfield

 

 

Number 24

 

You took away
the love I gave and got.
You want me living loveless.
Maybe you think
your tablets are just as good.
You took away the love
that was my guide.
You want me living aimless.
Maybe you think
bumhood is all I deserve.
Or maybe you think
that one like me,
one so out of synch with average,
so at variance with
people-bla-bla bullshit,                                                                                                  
shouldn’t be alive at all.

 

I’m alive.
I breathe, my heart bangs.
I am a biology.
But what will you
poke or prod or prick
to see if my soul is living?
What do you think loveless means?
Could be
you don’t think at all.    

here to poetry links

Not much else to say, really. So much was so frozen for weeks. I guess it was a kind of mental shock. Grief, memories came in spurts. But now it’s constant. Now it’s thawed.


Update 29 May 2009: That is the crux of what was done to me: all the love I received in this world was taken from me, and everyone to whom I gave love. I have lived a loveless life for more than 14 months. You really can’t count Matthew’s love for the time that he felt it: it was love of such poor quality. And yet the hope that his love would turn out to be better than it looked was there for a number of months. The hope that there was some love yet to know. But no sale. His love was/is self-involved and uncaring.

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read…   Shadowpoems…   Lucked out

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what is love?

Page Fourteen                  (copying away)

sehnen posted on Apr 28, 2008 | views: 164 | Tags: all for lovex

Mon 28 april 2008    greenfield

Number 18                (Tuuschi’s poem)

The ringer of bells,
the happy boy,                                                                                                                              
the lover of love itself.
I was flummoxed always,
baffled always,
that a soul so enormous,
a will to love so huge,
could fit inside
your little ounces of
feathers, flesh and bone.
 
 
You’re the sun,
the rushing waterfall.
You’re everything that shines
and effervesces.
And you’re gone.                          
 

(here to more tuuschi)

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So what is love? Different things to different people, I’m sure. And what do you do for love? Again, different things to different people. Here’s something that I did for love for thirteen years: I watched my epileptic dog and cat have grand mal seizures, and after the first few times, I learned, for their sakes, to pretend I was perfectly calm. But the Department of Mental Abuse in greenfield never asked me about things like that. They apparently decided I’m just a wing-nut animal-hoarder and set out to rid me of my animals. Presto, the problem’s gone.

So here’s the dog, epileptic since he was five years old in 2002. The dog weighs about 80 lbs, and in an animal that size, a grand mal seizure is a grand event. Pee, sometimes poop, lots of thick saliva, thrashing and snarling and odd sounds coming out of the throat. And as many seizures as I’ve seen over thirteen years, I have never lost my terror: this animal is going to die. Right here, right now, in my arms. And it’s not true that they’re going to die, it’s just a loving friend’s irrational fear. But I’ve never lost it. So for love I learned to kneel down beside the thrashing, snarling, 80 pounds of electrical misfiring, and gently stroke his side, and tell him everything’s going to be ok, and swallow my terror while my heart pounded, and tell him mommy’s right here, and you’ll be better soon. And then when he begins to come out of it, he wants to get up, but you know from experience that he can’t walk yet. So you gently push him back down 3, 4, 5 times and keep stroking him, till you know he’s come out of it enough to walk (as a novice I let him get up too soon, and he staggered and fell like a drunk, and things got broken). Then you wash the thick saliva from his muzzle, and he looks at the pee on the floor and then looks guilty, because he knows he’s supposed to pee outside, and he’s a good dog. And you tell him it’s ok, he couldn’t help it, he was sick. You clean the pee, you clean him. He’s hungry and thirsty after a seizure, so you give him what he needs. And often these things seem to happen in the middle of the night. All sound asleep, and suddenly he’s thrashing and moaning beside you. You wake up in a flash, swallow your fear, and be what he needs you to be.

One of the things I did for love of Mishi for almost six years. And before that, the cat. And I would do it a hundred times again, if I could have him back in my arms this minute. But the DMH took care of that, didn’t they. Keep whatever and whomever you love away from the DMH. I’m sure Mishi’s been killed as unadoptible: eleven years old and epileptic. Give me a jeweled dagger in my hand/ to avenge him.

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read…   Mental hell…    Braonwandering...

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 all photos, graphics, poems and text coyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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poemizing, sadly

Page Twelve                    (original from soulcast)

sehnen posted on Apr 22, 2008 | views: 212 | Tags: poemizingx

Still, still and again tuesday 22nd april 2008      greenfield

Well, how about one more poem, what the hell. This one’s for one of the three cats that I know have been killed. He was 12 years old (just had his birthday in January), almost entirely black, and he was the son and grandson and brother and cousin and nephew of other cats I had. His name was Ziidjian.

Number 9

 

  Here is one stolen soul:
  Black.
  My panther.
  Four weeks dead today.
  Three days ago
  I found the spot
  where I found your name
  (long gone)
  long ago on a nameless
  night.
  This pen isn’t large enough
   for the lack of you,
   for the story of you,
  or for the lighted years of you.
                          Your name still lives on my tongue.
                          I kiss you in the black
                          panther night.
 
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I’m sick today, and really tired. Just had to take a little bit more immune suppressant, a little more aspirin. It gets worse the longer I live without my life, without what was my family. It’s six weeks today, but feels like six months.

Update 19 May 2009, Greenfield: How it tears at my heart to remember writing these poems, writing them before I’d ever been told anything about the mob and the feds, believing the DMH was the bureaucracy that had destroyed me. Writing these poems in the restaurants of Main Street in Greenfield, the health food store mostly, and Bart’s Cafe, and Cafe Koko, which is gone and has been replaced by Cafe Siren. Writing them with great pain and grief, but still also with my denial and my hope. I began posting the whole collection, called Naked In Cold Space, on a different blog, but never got all the way to the end. They are all written in a little notebook that is now, I believe, in a former friend’s barn. Will I ever see those poems again?

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read…   Stolen stars…    Spite and malice

~~~ website  ~~~~~  Shadowpoems  ~~~~~~~~~~~

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