meditations, etc


Meditations, etc


I               I’m chained I feel to my will, my flesh and

bone; the pen in my hand follows the lines

of my command. But it’s you, is it

not, tapping the nerves and the veins

along my arm; fiddling my words, my will.


II             What do the poets talk about in their

heavens, what plot, scheme? Sculptors,

their plot swept clean, but stare at their own

bare hands, with the eyes of the blind.

I feel like a Shade sometimes, pure being.


III            I’m not free, walking the rounds, an abstract

head in the crowd. I mean nothing until

taken from context. I think, Man:

one small step, an accident perhaps, and

the crowd is wild with ideas, and people die.


IV            I’m surprised that there isn’t more death

on the street. How orderly life seems!

and how disciplined everyone is!

in line. The system I admit works well;

not quite the machine, but still…


V             Sometimes our system goes askew because

Man has fallen short of the Ideal

Platonic Man; is mere shadow, imprint.

When man or animal, say, is tortured,

I too would say, Fuck you fuck you.


VI            I disagree with legal murder and feel

the most disdain for those bitter souls

chilled with that fearful, inarticulate

loathing. Killing someone with your bare

hands, however, is another matter.


VII          I’m bitter. But for what? I know

what I would say, what I would do,

but can’t fathom it. I near hysteria,

only this morning, laughing, a madman,

in water my feet never touch the ground.


VIII         I shall drown or hang or bleed or die

naturally some day. Do you say, So what!

I’m now as my father was, years ago;

before Fortune spun her careless wheel;

struck him down, for absolutely nothing.



IX            I dare not rebel against God’s Law.

I’d die a thousand deaths, mortified

by each one; and, at best, humbled, my head

bowed, trembling before final severance;

then damned to the depths by my master.


X             I mourn for the light that was snuffed

from my heart; and if tonight I still lie

alone, quiet, all night, and tomorrow

night, ad infinitum; if so,

it’s because I’ve nothing more to give.


XI            I want to remember my dead friends,

light candles again; which will mean

nothing to them, but to me, everything:

I challenge you all to the death; take on

your smug common sense, your realism.


XII           In two days I light a candle for one

I loved. Not a good person, granted;

but what does the heart know about that;

right and wrong? I have never been

a disinterested party, in love.


XIII         The Suicides should be spared God’s wrath,

certainly. My friends were good men;

one took more heroin than necessary,

and the other choked because he was scared.

But who can penetrate the mysteries of Justice?


XIV         My nerves are shot. The horror never stops.

As I sleep, I’m scared the worms that curl

about my skull send messages;  speak in

esoteric tongues no-one understands.

What has this to do with me? My nerves.


XV          Indeed, people die, are killed when ideas

dictate; when individuals are subsumed

by the abstract mass; the clean-cut

faces, uniformed; a featureless

sea; dead calm; a desert sea.


XVI         Is it better to have been born? Can a slit

throat undo the good that was thought

and done by one man; happiness like blood

spilled upon the sand? Viewed like that,

murder is an act of purification.


XVII        I could become pure nothing in seconds.

Tie the knot; score the skin, slow, and quick

deliverance. I have snuffed the candle

which I had lit to commemorate

the sixth anniversary of your death.


XVIII      The fact that others once lived as I

now live, with slow regular breaths;

stood where I now stand; is, I think,

remarkable.  Although there are those

who have said: Death is as common as muck.


XIX         Death is solemn because life is beautiful.

When life is not worth living, death is

squalid, a grave of mass butchery;

individuals once, now nothing more than

vile bodies; grimaces and shattered limbs.


XX           My acts of profanity are, perversely,

ironic. A Satanic reverence,

when tears turn to laughter; no.

Yes, I’m still dying to lie with you

happily; and I refuse to get over it.


XXI         Sadness to me is a luxury I afford

easily. It’s nothing to me, emptiness.

I walk the long street in the long

evening, and back along the park; I hear

the birds sing to the dying light of evening.


XXII        How can I put this? I’m trying to break

down the door. To talk to the dead.

The departed. To those I have left, dead

inside. Yesterday I lit the candle

that had lain unspent in her drawer.


XXIII       I approach the age of meditation,

admiring the girls. An Aschenbach; a man

that haunts the swings, looking for love;

offering rides, slides; anything

you want. Refined. A gentleman, really.


XXIV      As a child I had an inkling of being,

strange. Even then I thought it all

queer. I lived innumerable hours

in a single room, staring at the houses

across the street, which moved when I moved.



XXV        It’s queer being a child; everything’s

on the outside of the skin; a pair of eyes

sees the trees waving at the sky, shoes

across the street, but knows nothing

of itself. My head felt like a shell.

XXVI      Those big boys on the bus are up

to no-good. I’m two years-old by the time

I feel fear and understand what self-

consciousness is. That is to say:

that other people exist, for real.


XXVII     I recall crawling along the nursery

floor, shitting myself, and feeling

something akin to disappointment.

I had felt content, and that incident

soiled it. Like a dirty wet blanket.


XXVIII    I learnt to swim in the long canal

that ran parallel to the river. I was

  1. My cousins and the other locals

shone with brown skin and big genitals

that blossomed in white underwear.


XXIX       I had to look as the girl undressed

behind the bush, one hand on my cock,

which throbbed all the way to the lump

at the back of my throat. It burned

so good, and I didn’t care who looked.


XXX        My coming feels like flowers blooming.

I’m enamoured; half conscious of bees

drunk in the trees, and the wind

caressing the long weeds, and me

faint. My head feels like a balloon.


XXXI       The moon and the stars are with me this night;

follow me home. These dirty streets, grey

in daylight, are blue and gold; glittering under

the amber streetlights that light the way,

home. Magical night. Walk me home.


XXXII     My life is wonderful through the veil:

I love the sea and the mist on the mountain

in the morning, walking through the vales.

Fabulous is the myth of Eden. I want

a garden just like it, and good companions.


XXXIII    We might live in that thornless garden

watered by a stream that flows from a spring

in the cool mountains, glittering with fish

in the shallows, golden: the Arian

morning, first of the glorious new year.


XXXIV    In my mind the garden is real beautiful.

Fear drove us; fierce animals, neighbours.

We sought what is good in itself, and were

punished for it, which set us apart,

like the first Jews, from the animals.



November 2015

Using Guided Meditation For Anxiety

6 Responsesso far.

  1. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    Wonderful, Marco, I would like to review my life in this way, like putting out stepping stones that wander all over the garden and exposing a different view from each!

  2. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    thank you! was a bit longer, but i cut it – enough, i hope, but don’t know

  3. john keast john keast says:

    Bewitching journey through life and emotion and memory. Terrific.

  4. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    This is wonderful, Marco. I’ve only read up to XIX at the moment, this should be ‘supped’ rather than simply ‘gulped down’!

  5. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    thanks Dean. hope the pieces fit.

  6. Dean English Dean English says:

    Interesting…interesting…mosaic journey, pieces interchangeable, the wonder of ourselves

Leave a Reply