His Mo(u)rning

November 12, 2014 1:15pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 35 Comments

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First thing in the morning was never good.  The place was silent and absent of activity apart from the faint humming of the fridge and the distant noise of neighbours going about their business.  He took a small glass of water and let the tap run and spill into the mug she had used a few days before. As it filled, memories of her flooded into his mind of a time when he felt sated by life. Not that the memories ever left, they plagued him, but occasionally something he saw would bring a fresh reminder.  He took a deep breath and released it slowly through his full lips and wandered over to the table to collect his cigarettes.  The table cloth still bore the collage of late nights and long talks.  Splashes of martini gin cocktails; pale red candle wax, melted and hardened into heart shapes; crumbs and spillages from shared platters.  He recalled how her hair fell around her face as she sat next to him at the table. He’d moved it gently away and slowly traced her jawline with his hand. The soft kisses they shared and their intertwined fingers. More being spoken through the eyes than with words; a new kind of language.  She was a far cry from others he’d met. He didn’t want to just take her or fuck her; he wanted to know her, deeply; explore her slowly. Finding a new level of respect for a woman that made him want to be careful with her.  He had explained to her that she was different.  She seemed to take that as a slight rather than the compliment it was.  Opening the patio doors, he sat on the steps and looked out to the sky over the terrace as he lit his cigarette. The burning at the back of his throat from the first draw momentarily more rasping than the loneliness.  His spare hand ran across his unshaven chin and to the back of his neck which felt tight from a fitful nights sleep.  Searching for her in the bed in the dark, early mornings only to find an empty space that mocked him with her lingering scent on the sheets.  Now, with his head bent forward, caressing his sore neck muscles, he could smell the the aroma of her faded perfume on his jumper.  The one she had pulled on to her to keep warm as they had sat on the same patio step, looking at the night sky.

 

The sky now was grey and cloudy and the wind flew hard in the tall trees.  Blowing dents in his dreams and emphasising the impossibilities and life’s complications.  When she was here there were none; the rest of the world closed and everything was safe and beautiful. But now she was gone, as quick as the wind that danced and scarpered outside.

 

 

 

 

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The Vampire, Kipling

A FOOL there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care)
But the fool he called her his lady fair—
(Even as you and I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant)
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you and I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn’t know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside— 25
(But it isn’t on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died—
(Even as you and I!)

“And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame
That stings like a white hot brand—
It’s coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!”

Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.

That is beautiful and so true

indeed, indeed.

Ah Kipling. So relevant and heartfelt. There’s a man who also bought the T-Shirt!

All poets live with pain. Whether it is the poetry of the written word or the poetry of art, it is only created in the furnace of a tortured soul.

So how come I’m not a poet then?! I am desperately tortured 😉

Ah, but you most definitely are.

Tortured or a poet?;P I’ll take it.

beautiful piece, mah dahlin. i can relate. i feel this man, save for the cigarettes which i had to give up cos people looked at me wonky when i spit on the sidewalk. *charlie brown sigh* well, time for me to drown my sorrows in an unshared platter of bacon sandos…*)

Why thank you my sweet Phoenix. Bacon sarnies? ALONE?!! That’s just selfish *) *Charlie Brown Sigh* (EXTERNAL)

Sounds to me like that guy needs to go out and get his girl back. *tapping fingernails across the desk* So? Has he done it yet? 😉

Unleashing the Dreamworld

HAHAHA! Crystal, you do make me smile with your frustration to my non closure! Ok, just for you, and since you’re a beautiful Mama to be, here’s what happened next:
She died. JUST KIDDING!
The buzzer to his door rang, breaking his reverie. It was early and he wasn’t expecting anyone and didn’t want to be doing people right now. He killed his cigarette in the overfull ashtray, burning the end of his finger in the haste. The steps down to the door were cold on his bare feet and the dim light in the stairwell made his eyes ache. He pushed open the stiff door with one hand, leaning into it from the last step. There she stood. Time stopped. Eyes locked. Much was spoken but not with words. His heart raced as he stepped down towards her and took her hand, pulling her gently inside. Closer to him until he felt the whole of her body pressed against him. Her head nuzzled into his shoulder as he embraced her and let out a breath filled with both anguish and joy. Burying his face into her soft hair and breathing in her scent and feeling his body replenish itself with warmth and longing. She looked up at him, eyes full of fear and questions. Their lips came together in a slow, sumptuous kiss filled with promise and wanting. And then she said, “I forgot my coat.” ;P

I thought she’d say, “I forgot my goldfish” or “I forgot my coffee maker”…but the coat works.

Damn it! Forgetting her goldfish would have been so much better! Why didn’t I think of that….

Poor chap. I would send him the wise words of Pedro Camacho:

“But believe me, I’ve had a great deal of experience in life. Most of the time, so-called heartaches et cetera are simply indigestion – tough beans that won’t dissolve in the stomach, fish that’s not as fresh at it should be, constipation. A good laxative blasts the folly of love to bits.”

Oh such wise words Mr. Gorilla Bananas! A dose of Andrews liver salts, a morning paper and a nice little junket on the john and he’ll be back to normal forthwith! I await your “Life’s remedies” book 😉

Long time no post. Whatsamatta? You no like us?

Nice piece. Going forward, please stay out of my memories, okay?

“As if I’d never noticed the way she brushed her hair from her forehead.”

I love yous’ you’re my favourite people. Just been encased in a shitty time that rendered me incapable of anything but breathing.

But memories are meant to be relived 😉

Yeah….as if….

My poor Jules…a shitty time? Sorry to hear that. Seems as though there have been heaping helpings of the…ehem…shit…all around. Glad to see you back posting. Now that we’re both returning to the land of the living, we can channel our angst into stories and poetry for others to commiserate with eh. xx

Yes Tracy, let us channel! I hope that includes copies amounts of vin de needed?

It’s good to be back to my virtual life 🙂 x

Nice and atmospheric Jules but the sky was – gray, gray..

HA! David it is grey! GREY, I tell you! Get back to your roots boy and stop letting these Americanos naff up your spelling!

Nah, good riddance to her, I say.
She’s got a bloke who is obviously smitten and would do anything for her and what does she do?
She fucks off, that’s what.
Probably with that twat Colin from Accounts… leaving our nameless hero alone with just his memories; an empty bed; a half-finished bottle of Blue Nun and a smelly jumper – which he’ll now have to take to the launderette himself because there’s no longer anyone in the house with breasts to do such things for him.
Selfish cow.

HA! Oh yes, the poor sod. My heart bleeds. I mean, there he his, sitting ALL alone with no well chesticled bint to make a fry up for him. I mean, he could go to Maccy dees but that would involve getting dressed and having to drive. And to add injury to insult his jumper now smells as camp as Christmas. Bloody women. But..I’m sure in time, like maybe later when he’s had a few and his beer goggles are on, he’ll woo some innocent young chick with his “I’ve said this to every girl and it always works” one liners and convince her that spunk will make her thin if she swallows. Next she’ll be ironing his kit, picking up his crap and wiping up the piss on the toilet seat. Bastard! 😉

Touché, mademoiselle.
🙂

😉 yeah but….still better than Colin from accounts…..jeez…

Maybe so.

But… it really DOES make you thin, y’know.

yeah..yeah..yeah…that old chestnut! 🙂

Well, it does make you thin. I’m a doctor (plastic surgeon) and it’s a medical fact — not open to speculation or even a contrary opinion.

HA! Well I can’t possibly argue with that now, can I !

You need to listen to the doctor. If an ad hoc exam is required for your own benefit, you should go with the flow. I have a gift for diagnosis as you well know…and often dole out sagely advice.

In fact, I may need to travel to France with you the next time that you go so that you’ll have your personal physician available to help both you and your attractive friends as the need may arise. ;^)

I’m listening, I’m listening. Sounds like sage advice to me. Now I know what doctors mean when they say “Open wide”.

Gosh…I’m flattered, Doc 😉

I’m just here to help.

To be part of the solution, not part of the problem. It’s a “calling”, really.

Wow this is deep, intense stuff.

I’m as deep and intense as they come Dee-licious. I’m so deep that I can’t even find myself. Who am I?

🙂

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