Preface: The break-up with my first love was utter devastation for me. The year Rene and i were to get married, she cheated. Hell, it was rumoured that she’d had a hysterical pregnancy for that doctor who just wanted a shag. Nevertheless, she was one of my 4 Great Loves (i seem to have one every 5 years with too much goddamn celibacy in between as if i’m some god’s earthly joke) and thus i still love her…and always will.

At that stage, though, it sent me on a journey that radically altered my life. For 2 years i lived in a seething darkness whilst i searched for the answers to life itself. I became “far too” wise for my age. During this, i wrote Requiem for Love and Sex, a much-needed, selfish purge. It mixes reality with fiction (no, i never pissed on anyone). But the places are real and characters are based on those i knew. There’s also a poem entitled Requiem for Love and Sex, one of the most vicious things i’ve written…maybe one of the better things i’ve written even if i’m alone in that thought. But the story rambles as it was for me not others. There is no great ending. But the opening section is one of the most vivid i’ve created…

Tonight, i will visit death.

For days i’ve sensed the arrival of this juncture but only realized the precise time a few minutes ago. Knew it as i climbed the last flight of stairs (ten steps in all – a countdown if i’d thought to count) and slid my guilty (stolen) key into the iron gate’s keep-me-out lock.

The rooftop is my quietude and i will miss such a faithful servant. Owing to a fat moon, all the sentinel shadows are in place. Glitters of stars ensure that i know which way to fall. The wind tugs at my clothing and not wanting to deny its desire, i unclothe and i’m given a flesh suit of goose bumps in return.

I walk like a sloth. Not because of doubt but as a result of wanting detail to adorn my final memories.

The concrete is cold and rough. My soles fill the gaps; no doubt granted red pin spots on their skin as evidence of passage. My toes are widespread. The air massages coolly between them. My ankles are stiff, my knees the same. No oil will help; nevertheless i grow no fear that my legs will be unable to walk me to my designation. My scrotum is tight. My penis hides so that i cannot see it through ginger, pubic hair unless i bend. I do not bend. My stomach sits coiled. It’s my cold and not my ulcer that makes it so. My hairy chest swells with air and pride. My nose is barricaded by snot and so it is my mouth that invites all the gases and ejects those that it does not like. My hair, blonde and dirty, waves from my head. There is slight regret that i’m not shaved, for in weather like this the sensation would have been likened to the pleasure of a stranger’s fingertips washing my hair, caressing my scalp. My eyes are widened with tingling wakefulness.

It’s a slight down slope to the thigh high wall. On this storm free night, it is i, and not rainwater, that is directed.

I have arrived.

The wall gives chair to my buttocks. My feet remain grounded.

The moment is not yet for I must dispossess that which i’m not allowed. I have a story to sacrifice. By all means, clog your ears with wax. It is not that i wish to move my salty lips and snaky tongue. As poet i’m bound by, and obligated to, darkness … and Death is patient with certainty.

Consequently, i address Love…

Three friends (two penises and a hole).

Myself.

A host of false players…

[Part 2 HERE]