M A T U R E    J U V E N I L I A                     2002




This close to death I can well afford to be reckless.
22 March, 20.40. Today, my heart rebelled against my 
lifestyle and past. For one hour the pain of a knife 
between the ribs summoned me to myself, called me to 
bear witness to every former fury and blackened thought. 
Every bottle and meal, every failed discipline at exercise returned 
in a sharpness for the flesh. I make my farewells here and in 
various letters, trying to reach my 36th birthday. 23 plus 13, 
the ultimate, my lucky numbers have come up. 

Only afraid of the pain or slow decay - or the sadness of family 
and friends. All the things undone or untried. The imagined fear 
of the possible futures in the face of the present worry, becomes 
meaningless.  (If you ‘knew that would happen’, why didn’t you 
stop it before it did?)  The amphetamines, blind rage and hatred 
or the ecstatic revalations? Which is to blame?  Not the genetics
for a change. The denial of the heart, the constant referral 
to it as being dead and cold, seems the most likely cause. 
Perhaps a twisted nerve between the bones? 

The soul is aware of the truth. Waiting for the snowdrifts of blossom, 
trying to escape the metaphor in the labyrinth.
There are golden and bronze hairs across my carpet and clothes, 
they catch the light everywhere and remind that one has been as close 
as flesh to me.  Must I be beautiful and intelligent at the same time? 
Such a burden, he thinks on behalf of his humour. 

Two thirds of memories are set down. I have lived in the human
times and occasionally felt fulfilled enough to pass onto the next
realm without regret. Go to sleep and never wake up in the same 
way again. In beautiful sunshine, dirty windows are shown....
Only freedom is reality, I repeat like a mantra in fear.  
I have become afraid of my heart, and there are many possible 
symbols here. The law of cause and effect, my faith in the belief
of getting what you are inside, manifest. That which is flowing will 
grow, that which is blocked will not. The justice of nature. 

At last the sharpening of senses, the increased delight in the days 
left, the litany of ‘if only...’ This man felt the beauty of the worlds, 
learned a few secrets, tried to evolve a touch more than at birth.
Has the purpose of being, been served?  I am, I was. 
The broken bow was repaired to fire one final arrow.
My ideas were not wrong, my lack of practising them was.

Could it be clearer that I have not been open enough to love or
the long term expression of it?  
I don’t know if I believe all these words.
I loved when I was able. Do I trust myself to give me the truth? 
The fatalist will always be right. Too late to sing my way out, 
pray to die without pain or fear - Heaven and Hell were always near. 
Now all possibilities are heartbeats closer.