Visit the Blog of Innocence for the full post.

Visit the Blog of Innocence for the full post.

To read my latest essay, “On Music” visit the Blog of Innocence . . . There you will also find a full version of Les Preludes for your listening pleasure.

On Music

It began at a school that turned boys into gentlemen Then turned them on to debauchery I was forced to my knees in front of these gentlemen If I refused they would torture me On Sundays I’d stalk the Botanical Garden And under my uniform something would harden Whenever I passed a girl of my own age

Or did it begin with au pair girls from Germany Paid by the hour to look after us? Did it begin with that first opportunity To corner a stranger with nakedness? Maybe the clinical way they undressed me Stayed with me and deeply distressed me I think, at heart, I’m something of a prude

I was born with the charm of innocence On my back like a cross Thorns upon my forehead Round my neck I wore it Sometimes a rabbit’s claw Sometimes an albatross

Then at 18 I decided I wanted To be a commercial photographer I rented a studio down by the docks Which I shared with a friendly pornographer I photographed models in fluorescent light Whose veins were so blue and whose breasts were so white I assumed, like the moon, women were blue cheese

When I left home I already had five years Of self abuse under my belt I found certain women who’d let me try anything Just to find out how it felt In some garish hotel room with vile decoration The wallpaper witnessed my first pollination The paisley patterns witnessed an abortion

I was born with the charm of innocence On my back like a cross Thorns upon my forehead Round my neck I wore it Sometimes a rabbit’s claw Sometimes an albatross

In the army they taught me to share the abuse That I’d kept up ’til then to myself There’s nothing like killing For coaxing a shy boy of twenty-one out of his shell In the dark continent with a peace-keeping force I fell in with a bunch of Algerian whores And promised them I’d try and keep in touch

We met up again in the 18th arrondisement I remember them well Their lank stringy hair and their big bulbous noses Their unmistakable smell I’d approach all the ugliest, seediest jerks And ask them to keep a young model in work Some men, thank Christ, don’t discriminate at all

I was born with the charm of innocence On my back like a cross Thorns upon my forehead Round my neck I wore it Sometimes a rabbit’s claw Sometimes an albatross

I will pass my old age by a pale two-bar fire Patiently waiting to die Twitching the lace as the schoolgirls go past Tracing a page of Bataille And if you catch sight of my secondhand coat Leaving behind it a faint whiff of goat Remember both of us are naked underneath

I thought it would end with the first obscene phone call The second professional kill But somehow detached from my actual behaviour This innocence burdens me still Up in the attic I pick up the brush Paint in the crow’s feet, paint out the blush The face this portrait is of is still capable of The face this portrait is supposed to be of is still capable of The face this portrait is of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame) The face this portrait is supposed to be of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame) The face this portrait is of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame) The face this portrait is supposed to be of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame) The face this portrait is of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame) The face this portrait is supposed to be of is still capable of (Paint out the blush of shame)

(Paint out the blush of shame) (Paint out the blush of shame) (Paint out the blush of shame) [ The Charm Of Innocence Lyrics on http://www.lyricsmania.com/ ]

Here’s the audio version of his prose, “Hit Me”:

I write poetry at dawn

rebellion ended some time ago destructed me into flames all I have now is a little

cigarette to burn before daybreak the birds to call my name the echoes in the empty backyards

I’m not suffering here maybe I was yesterday, early this hour I’m bright shimmering with silence

a trap I once stuck my foot in now has no power to contain the loops of knots don’t fit anymore and rebellion is a word for children

but I’m a man terribly aware of my freedom to do destructive things

More Poetry . . .

then there is the gravely turn of the wheel over the restless, buried dead

you’re led down that familiar path from your childhood, to the end of the cul de sac

a retreat into a lonely, reassuring place.

We’re blessed with everything but everything is never enough

and how do we explain regression?

the drink on the table empty–go fill another glass

cigarettes in the new jacket pocket five more until daybreak

More Poetry . . .

i relish these days of quick, intense pain the arresting hours of doubt and the wild, bright future that just breaks in

i relish the moon that keeps me company while i write these poems to a forgotten son

i relish conversations in the dark with my cats the playful gestures of their paws

i relish a meal with a new friend parmesan shards on my lips as nervous laughter erupts

i relish my whole uninterrupted self the silos of pain and the exclamatory Yes coming from nowhere and never

i relish giant moments like these which embrace me could this life be anymore unknown?

More Poetry . . .

a cycle will remake you as a cycle broke you down and all your thoughts about the world won’t matter

i’m young again with you i’m blind and naked and undefeated anxious child come dance with me

what are you afraid of only lovers speak this way what are you running from timid infant on a wave

the dark engulfing world will cower behind you and me

More Poetry . . .

as the car was moving in all directions and trumpets played into the wind

you came to me distracted by a dream you drove to my house your vision beautifully incomplete

from here the road curves into darkness a darkness I’ve never traveled before

More poetry . . .

peruse your life look at the grooves that one

I am no seeker no spiritual man the seeking stopped once I realized discontent like repeating chords

scraps of days endless bits of things attracting and repulsing me in quivers just one endless loop into tomorrow living without a clue:

that’s me

my dumb innocence i used to look back and read what I wrote and linger on it because it was raw and young

today I think I’m old More Poetry . . .

despair, dread, the memories of failure what a cold bunch of phrases and yet that’s what it feels like I’m not drifting away tonight just typing and I’ll go to bed accepting knowing when I wake up a new day will be there radiantly reminding me of this possibility another reason to desire things.

the inevitable pattern is a blessing and a conundrum We look back on the whole lot but i doubt that this is the end of suffering maybe resolution will crown our lonely heads one day maybe strangers will greet us in the morning and know who we are

I doubt anything in this world will change twice if anything were to happen it would overwhelm the mind

this mad quest of life

More poetry . . .

even our misery is fakegray newspapers stuck to the wall ink bled from one column to the next stock market quotes in giant red digits proclaiming the end

More Poetry . . .

my room is muffled like a blanket a fixed hour neither forward nor back my girlfriend detests the tight-rope walker his infantile dream of endangering himself the night gathers his back to the fire a moonlit cape

between my ears is silence the mysteries scrawled like iridescent wings the tight-rope walker takes a step forward across the looming office towers

i write to escape whatever my life contains a range of habits and contradictions and charades no matter what I read in books or people’s faces I’m light as the wire or doomed to make these errors again the arguments are circular

my father and his beliefs, my best friend is skeptical by nature, my subconscious will always win, the heroes I admire, never fail me the torrents like a penny down a black endless hole so emptiness falls endlessly

seconds before instants what should have been days water rushing in I’m no longer coming full circle proud relatives will leave this earth unhappy

winter cats prefer comfort and clean water, supper, breakfast, and then bed dream pictures hang everywhere in the living room i’m not getting anywhere with them

i remember when I was younger; how I would pander to the crowd and dance like a clown on a tight-rope

adolescence was a hold-up you couldn’t get across to my universe without falling; adulthood the ground never ends

More Poetry . . .

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Whitman was right I want to be a child living on the couch all day life in front of the fireplace dreaming dreaming of fame but also dreaming of light and fictional lands of becoming another person in another century

the clean sun spots on wintry fields outside my doorstep branches swaying I have no control over this eruption of feeling I will write when I write and hold silence in empty seasons I too am paralyzed

to be myself I stopped writing poetry for a whole year you can’t explain the muse I tried to control my hand but my hand rebelled

winter is a sabre from the root a river flows cutting the morning with these lazy thoughts grown into little children sad wayfarers the open rose winter lavish in cold innocence

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More Poetry . . .

For those who are consumed by the need to be the best, a drug that promises an edge can mean the world. When your ability is your identity, the notion of a magic pill seduces.

Chapter 13

There is a puzzling quotation that opens Herman Hesse’s early novel, Demian:

I wanted only to live in accord with the promptings of my true self. Why was that so very difficult?

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These last couple days I’ve found myself pondering the idea of “escape”. I’ve been thinking of the various ways in which I use the term “escape” and how I apply it to my life.

An escape is a break from the usual routine. Often the word is used with travel, vacation or adventure. It therefore connotes something outside the boundaries of daily existence. We escape from life’s duties, life’s routines; we break from the mundane world to take a vacation.

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Chapter Eleven

I’m writing this essay to understand how technology isolates me from my sensory experience and why I get so addicted to this feeling of (dis)connectedness.

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