PROSE – us and the man (UNFINISHED)

We huddled for a bit, silently discussing the consequences of allowing the Man to jeopardise the preserving balance of our relationship. More simply put, we would be three, and not the frivolous unruly pair we’d always been. For me that was dangerous, as he could steal my Maur (but then, I wasn’t very famous for being welcoming – perchance I could make him run away before the end of the day?).

After what I would describe as quite a generous while of our stern discernment, we concluded that he was harmless, and worthy of our interest. He also did seem lonely, and we weren’t the people to deny a proper civil-mannered fellow some company.

Maur was a tad too timid, see – he still stuck firmly to the old rule of ‘Don’t talk to strangers’. With all his notions of self-imposed code and honour, it was up to me, with all my bravado, only slightly taller than Maur (I made him remember it anyhow), to loudly proclaim, “You’re all right, you can join us.”

He shuffled over to us – tall, awkward, his brown hair most splendidly silky – yet perhaps too long for a grown man? – that, of course, was a matter that remained open for consideration. The Man refused to make eye contact, which I at once considered must have been a show of respect on his part, but I could see the tiniest – an oh-so tiny – flicker of disgust cross Maur’s face, and I understood why. Judging by his height and build, he must have been a decade our elder, if not by two, and shouldn’t have been acting even more bashful than Maur.

I think it was due to this that Maur, who had been assessing the Man carefully, found it in him to speak (albeit warily): “You may sit, sir.” The last word was an expression of the expected civility; it was unforced, and while I found it most distasteful, it was in Maur’s nature to do so.

Maur seemed to be growing in confidence steadily, as he graciously gestured to what happened to be the only patch on the ground shaded generously enough by a large oak. Complying, he sat, and we followed suit, quietly observing his behaviour as he purposelessly flicked at stones. It was a few minutes before any one of us spoke.

“What’s your name?” I blurted abruptly, in an attempt to break the silence. I caught Maur’s sideways glance – we had to know him better; I mean, Jesus, we were practically sitting with a complete stranger (and it was here that I realised Maur’s caution, which he still kept up to some degree).

“My name?” he asked, sounding startled.

That was when he looked up. And – oh, oh sweetness.

Neither Maur nor I would probably ever have the opportunity to clasp eyes on something as beautiful as what we saw; not ever something equal to the handsome radiance we were graced to have set our gaze upon, for it would probably never occur in the remainder of our lifetimes. We remained awestruck, I more than Maur, but he was too short to truly appreciate beauty, despite being 6 months my elder. Or at least, that was what I reasoned at the time.

“Cripes,” I heard Maur mutter beside me. I also noticed his face reddening, which did well to amuse me.

That is, until I realised that he may have been questioning himself about – well, he had not ever kissed another man but his pappy and wouldn’t ever do, at least that’s what he told me, but the look on his face told me that he may have been considering otherwise. Which was quite out of character, but you would have to see it to believe.

Our staring must have been quite intense. The Man clearly thought that we must have thought him to be a freak show, for he decided that lowering his face and letting his hair curtain it was the only viable option to figuratively escape from the hell we were giving him.

But as I emerged from my trance-like state, I pondered – it was weird, not in our custom to stare so rudely, yet we had. I mean, even Maur had, for all his code. And the conclusion I was led to did terrifically in scaring me – we had been witched, and I disclosed this to Maur.

“Say-maur,” a tentative, lightly mocking (yet not too mocking – in light of the situation) whisper of his Christian name successfully reached him for he turned. “Seymour, reckon we’ve been witched?”

‘Witched?” he muttered, frowning. “What’s that, Ando?”

I became frustrated. “Jesus, Maur, it’s when you start going all dreamy and you get into a trance and start thinking rash thoughts and all. Probably you’re not even thinking.” My voice started to climb higher – Maur didn’t hush me, for he was going all red in the face again, and for no apparent reason too. He didn’t have to hush me anyway, I remembered in time. The Man with the enchantingly beautiful gaze was not yet out of earshot.

“Ain’t that happen to you too, Maur? I saw you, you’ve no chance of denyin’ it now.”

Maur nodded slowly, trying his best to look quite unaffected, and proceeded to correct me – it was ‘bewitched’, not ‘witched’, ’cause the Man ain’t a girl, he said – and with a maddening air of superiority, he said the Man couldn’t have possibly been bewitching us – why, one look at his clothes and you’d know, he said. I thought it sounded like a load of hot air, and I pressed my luck in insulting his newfound wisdom.

“Hmph. Funny way to tell, by the clothes, ain’t it?” I searched for a reaction and found none. “How do you tell by the clothes, Maur?”

Maur scratched his head. “Ahh…well, I don’t rightly know but, I still doubt he could’ve done anythin’ of the sort.”

Begrudgingly I accepted this baseless explanation; I was still hurt by Maur’s contradiction, for they seldom ever came.

“Maur, you sure he’s safe?”

“Should be,” but he sounded uncertain. It was just a temporary case of manfear, he said – yet I was sure that word did not exist in the Oxford.

I silently figured that with all our hostility – furtive whisperings and all (and right in front of him too! – ol’ Colonel would be pretty damn mad) – we wouldn’t achieve anything. We had to overcome this – this ‘manfear’, as Maur quite tactfully put it.

My stomach chose to growl loudly at that moment and Maur gave me another of his famous sideways glances and I quickly looked up at the Man, anxious that he had heard. It appeared he hadn’t noticed or was trying not to draw any further attention from the likes of us two. It was still forgivable, though.

I let – well I forced Maur to speak this time. His gentlemanliness and civility would probably get across better than my rude and sudden outbursts.

“You’re older than me,” I whispered as he nagged, but it wasn’t too much of a fight. As in all our altercations, I would win while Maur humbly accepted the fate that our little arguments would automatically decree for him.

Maur cleared his throat, and I sensed his apprehension, which I silently laughed at.

“Uh – sir, I do apologise, we must not have heard what you said; what’s your name, sir?” I could see Maur already preparing to avert his eyes. I too, braced myself so that we didn’t look like the fools we had been only a while ago.

He looked up again and we again were transfixed – our eyes were locked on him, Maur’s face was hot, and as I helplessly stared I felt ashamed at the forces that curdled within me each time we looked at him.

“Miro.”

“Miro? You mean..?” Again I laughed at what seemed to me to be a great deal of discomfort from both Maur and the Man; Maur seemed to be bursting with it, seeing as he had only made the situation more awkward.

The Man who called himself Miro seemed slightly offended but much too timid to show it yet; he looked down.

“I don’t mean anything…My name is Miro.”

Perhaps it was the only thing he had to affirm his identity, I believed. He seemed extremely lost.

“Hey, Miro,” I said. “Hey Miro, don’t you have any friends?”

Then Maur decided to do something he wouldn’t usually do. Perhaps I had imposed on his pretentious code of honour more than once in the presence of a stranger, and he thought my reward fitting. Stony-faced, Maur reached out for my arm, and pinched it with all the strength I had previously underestimated that his puny arm could hold.

“Ow!” I muttered.

But Miro did not seem to notice, as usual. He looked me in the eye, and again I felt the need to look down (but there was a hint of pain in his look, was there not?).

“No. I ran away,” he said quietly.

“You what?” I asked. The news was surprising – what would a grown man be doing running away, I thought, and this aroused my suspicion. I looked up, and was slightly creeped out to see his eyes still trained on me.

But this time my eyes could not escape. Locked in this torture, he repeated to me, calmly as a father would his child: “I ran away.”

“Well…I’d guess so but – ahh – what from?” I asked, almost shamed into muteness. The bold manner I had inherited, which usually bestowed upon me the uncanny ability to remove myself of awkward situations, had deserted me. I felt myself desperately gripping the ledge of a cliff, but being dragged into a world of diffidence (possibly Maur’s world) by overbearing forces in his steady gaze.

“From loneliness. From a world in which only the closed-minded lived.” He smiled to himself, a painful smile, then quickly changed the subject.

“What’s your name?” he asked, a question which I was sure was directed at Maur, for I had already turned my head, trying to regain dignity in the Man – I mean, in Miro’s eyes.

“I’m Maur, and this is Ando.”

I’m not sure if Maur heard, but I definitely heard Miro mutter, “What funny names.”

“Not as funny as your own,” I retorted, which I immediately regretted. Both Maur and Miro proceeded to stare hard at me (something they wouldn’t dare to do except if they were both in the same league), again forcing me to look down.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, silently vowing to give Maur a much anticipated licking after Miro had left. I started investing my attention in more trivial matters, such as the non-existent fly that had settled on the ground directly in front of my feet.

“Miro,” Maur asked, that hint of uncertainty still in his voice. “Miro, sir, do you like – uh – playing games?”

In my opinion, that was the worst question he could ask at that time. I would’ve spat on the ground in disgust if I hadn’t remembered that I had already crossed the red line.

But unlike the somewhat scornful reply I thought he would receive, Miro said, in lilting tones, “If you and your proper friend don’t mind.”

I think he was talking like that just to mock us. But he had called me proper.

What were we meant to play anyway? What would an adult think was worthwhile to play? Such questions raced through my mind when he accepted Maur’s childish offer.

….

…..

…….

NEED TO FINISH

…..What’s this

“I’m afraid we must part here, Miro-jan,” Maur called cheerily. “Cheerio, Miro.” I was slightly angry that Maur had taken the line I had rehearsed so well ever since hearing his name.

“Bye, Miro,” I said, with a wave. We proceeded to walk up the gravelly road

PROSE – a ringing laugh, a friend without a soul

This poem is a continuation of the prose poem entitled ‘What is sentiment to the void soul?’

My soul is light. My laugh rings free. After years of seeking, I have found. And do you know what I have found, my friend? I have found a companion, alike to me, to revel and share in our feelings. Oh, what a little joke on my part was that! Did you notice how that word once again came forth? Feelings? Hah – I have no use for such trivial things, which I had already mentioned if you had cared to lend me an ear. Indeed, we both have no use for feelings, which is what completes the circle of our bond. Merrily I state that we both have souls devoid of all.

We together remain in a deserted, isolated path, the only path that our souls can comprehend. No, I am not talking about the relationships between myself and you, my dear. Verily I speak of my newfound companion. The only path is not matter but anti-matter. Yes, it is the essence of my very being, if you will indulge in me saying so. But of course you will, for it is none but truth, and only the evil that exists in a living soul could prevent me from saying so. I beg your pardon? Oh, how deserted this alley we walk is, you ask. Well, well, I bear a tale which I will loyally demonstrate for you. See here, now. At the window of my thoughts (and may I once again stress its noticeable difference to petty ’emotions’) I shout. I shout out, but my voice resounds, it echoes like waves crashing against a cliff, swirling figures of infinity in the mouth of a cave, only to remove itself to freedom moments later. So of course, it would be very isolated. I make no calculations as I know for a fact that the reply of no-one reaches me.

Enough of this, I have talked too much. Much more even than your timid, weak minds would absorb. My newfound friend is void of a soul, just as mine. But friends, let us not be hasty, for there is a difference. My soul lives on. And, my dear, her soul is in Purgatory, for which she is the only soul who I have been thoroughly able to understand and withstand, despite her non-breathing existence. It is beautiful, is it not? That her soul ceases to exist in the realm of the living, like mine or yours, yet she exists as matter, and still has a form in this world? I observe a plume of rich red darkness erupting from the cavity in which her soul once rested.

Legally, they term it as ‘victim’. But instead, I say ‘friend’, for this word is much more auspicious in the face of death. I assure you once more, I am truly not crazy, I cannot be. It is just a sweetly bitter fact of life that I am forced to resign myself to – that I am not crazy, yet I am called this for the mere fault (it is not even a fault) of being a poet. I like to call the form, the body in which her soul no longer exists, not as a ‘victim’, as the bureaucrats would name it. Instead, I find her to be a poetic expression of myself. Look deeply, look with seeing eyes, my friend. And you will surely see it to be so.

I will presently withdraw my knife – Wait, my friend! I mean you no harm, come closer. See how this knife glints? How it subtly yet effectively catches the last rays of sunlight in all its glory? This – this is what I aim to be. Now look at my soulless companion’s body. This plume of rich red was not my fault. It was the fault of the knife, which stabbed once and did not fail in its duty to take the soul of the living, human and not human, away. Yet I did not regain her life, nor did I try. It was best left without a soul, in my opinion.

Once again, you may rest assured that I have not the slightest problem which may make me seem mentally challenged. As it is, the capacity of the mind’s intelligence cannot be determined through such differing tests and examinations. My dear, you must know that I am tired of this word, the word ‘crazy’. I have been called by this much too often, it has hurt me and left a lasting impression on me. If I were not in such a position as now in which you, my friend, utterly lack confidence in me, I would ask you to say something fresh. Say something new.

PROSE – what is sentiment to the void soul?

Sometimes I have slight wishes – very insignificant, and barely worth mentioning to the untrained heart. But it has a name – comfort, which again, roots from very small things, very insignificant things, to a soul devoid of all, such as mine. These, my friend, these trivial things have a name – feelings.

Dare your words of sentiment to reach me, and comfort me. Dare they not? – Oh well – I have yet again been presented with two choices, but none makes a difference from the other.

To acknowledge the words to pass me, or bury them within the alley of my mind – ah, the one, yes, it is consumed with the numerous hurts of rejection, which I long to re-open and see very much – but no matter of that. Had your words reached me in the first place, I would not have been aware. Or so they say! – My soul is void of existence to the untrained eye (and so they say, that I am crazy, yet you know better).

Empathy drowns in the depths, those dark glaciers that I hack away at each day in my own soul. My friend, do you know this pain? Undoubtedly not, for you are much the fool. Yet for all my toil, I achieve not a single scar, no melting. The glaciers, instead, grow. (I think I will indulge myself in a sardonic little laugh here.)

Now we must slow down. My memories recollect, at the present, and it is known that to interrupt my train of thought will only have cause for disaster. Yes, your empathy – and everyone else who has bothered – indeed, it has not reached me, for the likes of those dark corners in what seems to be a colossal soul, a radiant soul. That soul, my friend, has never failed to fill me with a tingling yet delectable sensation. It is the only sensation that gives my void soul a happiness. And that my dear, as many times had been told to me yet many times I refused to acknowledge, is known as – warmth. Doesn’t it charm the ear, the very word? Listen, my friend, listen closely. Warmth, warmth, warmth! (And for this they call me crazy.)

Yet your soul is weak, as frail as mine own. After having explored these areas of pitch…What was that? Yes, virtue turned pitch – it has been too often heard of within the lies of history’s pages. Yet amongst the lies, one receives a newfound wisdom in those lines, in which the ancient and the present is recorded, those lines that breathe, seep and indulge in filth, deception and lies.

And why is that, you may ask? Because, my friend, I know now, to no longer expect  the honeyed sensation of that feeling – what was it called again? – oh yes, warmth. Yet for all my days I will remember – and you would do well to remember, too – that within every soul, within the warmth, exists rage, fear and tears.