From this grey, rubber plinth and a medicinal blow
Cracked a thought (less) division: an old love lying low.
Insidious past-life scares dreams from the south
And plots this red course where weak men stop to go.
Love! – or waxy, yellow shame tightens the guts
Whilst malevolent water creeps up past my nuts.
This guilt in my mind and your honeycomb brain
Reveal to me nothing save reason to cut.
Soft cuts in a mid-corpse not too ready to die
Though fake blood streams past a gelatinous eye.
I’m not dead though still ripe for the worms and green birds
Who mock my illusion. Who needs words? Not I.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Hello. My name is Stewart, but that's not important.
This is me at the cairn of a munro called Stob Binnian. What one finds at the top of a mountain is profound clarity of thought and the joyous sound of silence; i adore feeling detatched from the sprawl of hollowness that i find in my reality below. I hope this diary can be my sea-level protest against the utter banality of modern life and a place where i can truly express myself.
From here on, nothing is literal: except this - thank you Ingrid.