Where’s My Woman?


Somewhere at the crossroads of my earliest days I did finally recognize her for what she truly is. Present as she ever was before me. There to hear, smell, see, touch, have and eat. She is always there for me and all my flaws and failures, so glaring as they always are. She held me in her hospitable embrace, like I am the most amazing event in her entire long existence.

I woke up in the cradle of her shoulder, not yet sober from the intoxication of my ever innocent naivety of habitual ignorance. The little rift she positioned me in, suited me like another skin. The early dew still misty and the fog damp in the moist odour of green life. Its rich texture so soothing to my touch and the prickly feel of her short skin hair is real and alive; the enduring pasture of my childhood and harbinger of my ever lingering livelihood. The palm trees in her oasis sustain my existence.

She never gave me more when I wanted. I just took and God damn her. She hits me and I cried, yet I had what I wanted in my own way and time, as she most generously still allows. There was only my way and no other. She ironically made very sure of that, with an active laxity. Her reactionary ease belittles her concise dominion but lightens and lively up my lustful slavery, presumably heralding my ever bolder errors.

I guessed and heard that like the promise to give life a loan and a meaning for it, I had announced my existence like a tolling bell made to recede back into the abyss and reconcile with the evil I speculate with. But I was never certain how I came to be hers and never easily persuaded why I am not of another. Perfect it may be to my ego and schemes it seems. Maybe I was just a reject she took in, accepted and accommodated; it is in her character, this I haven’t an iota of doubt about.

Clutching her broad navel as I look up from her low invincible bio-embrace, I beheld the ravishing rugged beauty of her peaked nipples of ice-capped pillars, as they are crested high up like a pair of very old twin mountains. They dripped their white clear, sweet life raring milk and it flows eternally downwards into my watered rivers, to quench all my life trended thirsts; every single one of them. Those I already had and many I just may have selfishly acquired in my coy nature.

As her nature sifted my kind on her vast expanse, that I may abound more, even in the nothingness of natural silence that has hidden all other more deserving sounds elsewhere, ignoring their righteous demands for attention. In between the twin mountains’ valley is my favoured nestling place; the cleavage of my adolescence, where I perch day long as she went about her chores, catering for me. I moan as she twists a tit into my mouth.

I chew at the upside-down ice cream cone, at the creamy cold nourishment from the mountain, for the fun of it. When I get tired of it or even before I do, I gaze up into her face. Her face is a contraption of concentration at work, ever brewing a storm. Then it is a pale, clear and accommodating expanse as she listens. Her adorable actively pleasant face keeps my attention with playful winks and clicks. It is a floating woolly cloud, in various smoke-like miens. It is always saying its mood with every day and night, season and reason.

She is always there when I look up. Ever present when I look and where I remember she will ever be. Beyond her chin, horizoned with its rough edge like many a masculine chin’s clef, is her face and sky. It is that simple identity of hers I have come to take for granted. It is always either side of my mobile head and her horizons; as in opposites not parallels and I grasp that I am all alone. Right in the middle of her, time and this huge sky;

Soul of this globe,
Never will it elope.
Its thought its own,
Roaming in its fun.

Pale or dark as ever,
Woolly chilly shiver.
Diamonded precious
So actively conscious.

Wrapped loose cloth,
Securing the whole lot.
Plenty does here rest
As willed by our best.

She wakes up one night alone, by herself. I was gone and all grown up but still pestering her life. I wasn’t her ally, but an alien she nurtured and fed to her detriment. The oneness we had was gone as we shared her body and my shit. Devouring her best, dumping its fair residue to waste like toxic creations spoilt by her best attributes. But now I just keep my body and her, she gets my shit. I took her best and left with nothing to show for it but my misery, as I rot away with sure and certain age;

Living is thwarted,
Obscured by its folly.
The mind is hunted,
Impossible even if jolly.

When a bird sings,
It is because it must.
What age brings
Speaks for us most.

Like many, not all but most, we had that parental only pact; to need to breed to feed, rubbed into our psyche not our physique. It is drilled in with words that say so much more because they are twisted to do such. We made up words for our own use and we have ended up using them to render ourselves their slaves.

Words are like the moods the moon stimulates and the feelings that they will always show as soon as they are said. Whether as off-springs of a carefree oath or not, words are stuff filled with only doubt even when they appear to know what they are about. They will smartly set aside the feelings that originate them with such class, and pursue their own. We will always forget words, for they are said wet with much anticipated hope. The fact that they follow through an idea and still back up to dry it up again, speaks for their reliability.

How words dry up a dream is relative to their personalized medium, for time on its own would dry up the anticipated hope and take away the brightness out of the promised day of goodness, and again night would linger on, forgotten. It is true that words are lost in mazes of truths. This is because words are actually made from and like the maze structured brain that creates and uses them; that cratered, ridged, influential moon.

The substance of my existence is embedded somewhere in her. I see its influence in her every act, for it is not in mine. Her essence is such that I never fully comprehend it and I cringe from my sheer nothingness. The waning oscillating ripples in the clear pond of reality, leaves the soiling pebbles humanity keeps throwing into it, still beneath the rich water of its consciousness, clearly depicting how man’s loud pitiful aggression doesn’t survive his certainly limited presence.

I see the dew steal in at dawn, in tears. The morning twilights like it did billions of days before I was told it crept in every other mourning morning, ever since still. Today appears to be weeping for yesterday’s sorrow, burying yesterday in tears from the clouds that woke up today crying. A cool morning breeze softly speaks the calm and tranquil wonder in death and birth of new days, saying things like we all already knew. It brings peace to the dawn’s thoughts as early mischief and its numerous advocates, schemes into our daily Eden.

When wickedness tries yet again to reimburse cruelty with pity and the need to retreat to perceived safety is not its usual first option, we struggle over trivial issues we never accomplish. Soft warm sun rays declare hope is about again after only a single short night-while. The sun and its light that came first are only but a mere piece in a repertoire of realms so broad, and we a piece of it. She is only another ounce of an interconnected structure, of which I am another. If I fail, ignore or neglect her, the centre cannot hold me, for all things will fall apart. All is held together now because everything is one big Aeon of dew.

Crept in mourning morning
Crying away thy sorrow.
Skies’ spittle woke sobbing,
Burying the last morrow.

Whispers roam on a wind
Saying words all heard,
Soothe the first twilight’s mind
As early snakes grow a beard.

Tender heavenly rays announce
Judge’s back from a night abroad.
This first creation another ounce
In a repertoire of realms so broad.

All these scattered crossroads point me to one incontestable fact, like they have always done over every single triviality in my stereotyped, uninterestingly safe life that I incessantly rebel against with the rapt success of a restless peripatetic brute. It is a fact I can’t hide or alter to suit my self punishing ego and its detrimental quests. I held the truth in my hands for long. The truth is; my story is the woman’s and it can only be one story, for we are married together for an Aeon of Dew.

But in the affiliations my might had suffered me with, I see that in the hustle and bustle that I can not denounce like I relish to, I am a slave of my own perversion. I am a slave that lives like a master. Slavery is my addiction as any addiction is its slavery. I flatter myself with achievements of general concerns, recalling the minutest details of insignificant hurting sensations, remembering lukewarm salty tears and the joyous throaty giggle of laughter, when things that are larger than life arrest me still. So there is this little issue about the wife she married me to;

With the dreams of many
Mine wrestled so bravely.
Amidst hopes so sunny,
They tussle aimlessly.

She stood aside alone
With hands akimbo.
Beckoning even a stone,
A sight commanding a bow.

Humming emotional tunes;
Singled out, isolated wishes.
All engulfed in fumes,
Little hope for securing stitches.

Her hairs say her preference;
Tailing behind as Medusa’s crown.
Her aim in her appearance
As everyday she’s a lighter brown.

The immorality in fantasies,
The emptiness in smiles
As hearts create vacancies;
Hopes dumped in closed files.

It’s bottled up inside her;
The pain of another way.
She is sincere and only prefer,
That’s all she ever will say.

In those eyes that speak
Darkness glows from hidden fears.
The wait’s companion at its peak,
Yet she wouldn’t let the tears.

From mountains of selfish pride
Falls many years of knowledge
And it’s all been only a ride
That’s almost at existence’s verge.

Wanting what’s not given
So much that it hurts a lot.
Shy but ever once beaten,
It’s in these fears we’re caught.

So short ago the smiles spoke,
Or so I thought in my indifference.
Hearts appeared immune to a poke,
Like empty bags in conference.

The affection wasn’t a mirage,
Probably the marriage was.
But the rage in this cage;
Experience defeatingly shall pass.

She isn’t standing with me,
Claiming as I do, to be the man.
Her attitude mails nothing I see,
Then where is she, the woman?