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Entangled, overwhelmed, a picture in mezzotint
dove grey – bordered in the usual way
of men and women and games they play
Of piano-moods or senseless abandon
where the wicked transgress and say it is not so
^ ^ ^
The leaf-lawn green and sweet, a mothers smile
we don’t only talk in words, language, gestures,
mock perception or a hand to trace your face
The given moment sentient in the mind’s eye
not deep or dark but tangled like wool
^ ^ ^
And in one moment, mounted on horses
dressed in flesh, a mountain above easy feeling
we shake ofF the intrigue, guile and terror
And hold each other closer than our mother
bite, scratch and scrawl passions sanction
^ ^ ^
If lonely guilt were left in the darkest room
and the strangers we become, last years Kodachrome
lying in a box, a cell of transparency
Every word full, close-ups, vivid pictures
and our honest selves introduced as friends.
^ ^ ^
GUILT NEVER WEARS A HAPPY FACE
People today get pretty paranoid about a number of relatively illogical things, depending on your point of view or your particular peccadillo. From the dangers of passive smoking through asbestos poisoning and wells disease to the many and varied phobias including the usual and familiar, like claustrophobia and aracnaphobia and on to those even more extreme than brontophobia (fear of thunderstorms) or mysophobia (fear of germs).
However damaging the subject of these rattlesnake fears may be to their victims, none of them can ever be as controlling or debillitating than the inner curse that is the nub of that mischevious little 5-letter symptomia known as guilt (Cue – flashing thunder and scary music please) … Fundamentalist Christians, Catholic priests, no doubt other World Religions Teachers, Psychologists and Phsycoanalysts would give you differing, although possibly predictable but non the less worthy responses to the age old question, what is guilt?
Edenbray is not here today to either reiterate, confirm or critiscize these many well documented beliefs or respected, proven and accepted diagnosis. No, today I just want to take a cool, long and hard look in the eye of the little blighter. This annoying, secretive parasite of the human psyche that can grow to such an unhealthy scale that, apparently, it can help create mass murderers, serial killers and phsycoanalitic nightmares of the strangest order yet for the most of us (hastily he separates himself from the earlier list) has at least been the cause of not a few arguments, both inner and vocalised, emotional pain and angst and contributed to not a few very stupid actions and reactions. Am I the only one?
Deny guilt has a say in your life to your peril my friend, for this devious little ‘shit’ will gnaw out your very soul right in the fleshy centre of that denial and at very least may ruin many a good afternoon stroll or a healthy game of scrabble. No, we are not all psychopathic monsters riddled with parent-induced or strict religious guilt but we do, all on some scale or other fall prey to that little demon known as ‘guilt’.
Random note :~ the word guilt rhymes with ‘quilt’ and this seems fitting as squares of guilt add together and eventually grow into hideous proportions in much the same way as a patchwork quilt??
It has to be remembered that bed linen may not actually disguise guilt but it could be seen to cover acts of unfaithfulness that might well ultimately lead to just one variety of guilt. So in my search to determine what guilt actually looks like I have decided to organise an identikit operation that hopefully might lead to an eventual IDENTITY PARADE. We can then stitch these patchwork cameo’s of ‘guilt’ together and then ultimately learn to recognise the traits of the insidious demon ‘guilt’.
Guilt never has a happy face
We may process what we know about guilt more by what we know it does not look like than what it does. For example true guilt never has a happy face, nor is it particularly attractive. It may smile but then it turns out more of a sneer. It can never really be beachball joyful.
When we have singled guilt out, isolated it, named it and shamed it we may begin to ask – How did we ever fall prey to its devious schemes and wiles? How did we let this little monster bully us, invade us, worry us, negatively influence us and ultimately dominate us.
Paragons of un-virtue will interlude they have no truck with the pious, self-righteous, shameless and shaming roadster. ‘I feel no guilt’ is the monogram on many a playboys shorts, embezzlers wallet, dodgy tradesmen’s van, shyster, con-artist or a bawdy tarts bra and knickers. If she wears any. To these and all those who manage to control their inner voices like Al Capone carrying a baseball bat, guilt is indeed an Alien and should I ever meet such an one, he’ll get short shrift from my maple sledgehammer for I’m certainly not one of those who might entertain the notion of change, open-mindedness nor someone or some thing influencing either my life or my actions.
So this piece is clearly aimed at those who do believe in visitors from out of space or at least have already met the slimy little monster with a head full of teeth whose name begins with a gee and ends with a tee.
Yes, guilt my friend affects us all I would propose at some time and while guilt is not beautiful, alluring, pretty, handsome or desirable it is not necessarily ugly either, in the same way as a malignant cancer’s physical appearance to the naked eye can be mute and non alarming.
The problem with guilt is that it nags like a puss-filled boil, an insect bite, a domineering wife, husband or partner. It chaffs and ‘worries’ us like a hungry baby, a pain in the groin or an unpaid bill. Until we meet its demands it hangs over us like a blackmailer holding the darkest of secrets. It sends messages with devious cunning that we uncover in the unlikeliest moments. It can make us act very strange and if we bury it deep it leaves molehills on the surface of our landscaped lives to prove to us it has escaped and is roaming ‘out there’, dangerous, naked and free.
Guilt is no respecter of a persons age, background or social standing and people caught in its spidery web resort to the strangest, wildest, most diabolic recourse to remove its incessant taunts. You might say its vengeance is extreme.
Guilt does not let you be your ‘real’ self
Guilt hides away in the crevices of the human heart and folds of the human brain and teaches us to do likewise. It is a skeleton in the closet, a ghost in the dark, a rat in the attic – appearing at moments when you think it maybe has gone for good. Guilt is your secret even though you hide it so well. Or think you do. You’re better off without it but how do you ‘out’ it and how do you get the alien ‘out of the house’? How do you set that particular demon free? It’s a dilemma and one that keeps a whole lotta’ people in work.
Psychoanalysts, counsellors, doctors, priests …. So how do we loose the fettered monster? Choose your poison? Maybe we should all be a bit more honest about the things that make us feel guilty. Drag them screaming out into the light of day and expose them for what they are. Make coffee-time with your friends – your personal confessional. Come on, get it off your chest you know you want to and you might be surprised where it will lead. Maybe people will find you a lot more interesting. It might turn out a real turn-on for them or maybe they will recognise you are human after all and a lot more like themselves than they had realised. Open the cage, step out into the light.
Right then whose first?
We fold the flag away
either by length or width
never by height or colour
We listen to the neighbours woe
Cover our eyes gladly with the corn
That grows through our window
Swaying in the breeze gently
Golden corn we hold in our hands
The summer fun has begun
So sadly the flag now folded
Of causes, conflicts and clatter
Things now that no longer matter
painting: by edenbray ‘the man with the wooden gun’
The common man is hidden
Society once dressed him in grey
But now out of the magician’s hat
Punctured skin and stored notes
Honey bee hives, sweet and gammy
Enter the torn horse kicking gaily
a New Daily
Opinion shattered, warming sugar-sweet
a viral horn
TV people collecting crushed data ice
Nature as usual, nothing much said, led
Back down in the verdant silver valley
Note# silver eponymous for silicone in the context of the piece
Have you made it yet to edenbrays growing list of modern myths and legends ???
francis ford coppola
victoria coren mitchell
it has to be ‘puskas’
must have lived in the 20th century .. .
Eberus, a tall, lithe warrior dressed in fur and dusted by the plains of Maraballa, knelt and looked far beyond the purple hills of Sysophola.
His heart was heavier than the cargo of a sea barge drifting on the Aratteus after a month hunting and trawling for pescuthus.
He viewed the herd of Atruscean antelope that carried rich, dark meat, little fat and fetched good bounty at the Gerder market each 1st day.
Natreana had not spoken to him for 6 days now and this after they had shared that special moment while he visited, carrying forest truffle.
He nursed the knife her jagged eye lodged in his open heart, the wound where only torn emotion and passion lie side by side.
When they were joined by thought and imagination he knew her heart raced with his and by now he were chasing the insolent deer.
Who grazed on autumn coloured grasses, so trimmed, so languid, as Eberus who contemplated turning his dagger inward to end his mire.
Why is love the hardest, the slowest and the painful night while as well it causeth the step to quicken, the countenance to lighten and smile?
For these thoughts the deer were now tripping, gambling, running and breathing free as the night prussian and dark fell upon them.
I live in the somewhere else
in the in-between
I walk like a ghost
dream like a host
to an alien form
my allegiance torn
my purpose born
but not discovered
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
I am an ant on a trail
am a burrowed snail
of tortured moments shared
but not forgotten
for the perceptive
and the shallow
I am inward, bent
mysterious yet callow
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
The interrogator’s smile
so back in style
now placed on file
like many friends and trinkets
who mention love
with a surgeon’s glove
then stand aside
to murder then to profit
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
O the beauty
the beauty of words
¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥
To end the dreary day
The sun brought fire
And smote the grey
Of the heavens away
In his desire
That the evening sky might glow as red
As showed the earth with blood and ire
The distant canon’s boom
in a land oppressed
Still spake the gloom
Of a country’s doom
‘War!’ – called the frightened rooks and flew
From the crimson East to the crimson West
Then, lest the dark might mar
The sky o’erhead
There shone a star
In the night afar
O’er each man’s bed
A symbol of undying peace
The peace encompassing the dead
¥ ¥ ¥
Guest Poem ~ written by RICHARD DENNYS