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Tears For Fears Listen
The following piece of literature will likely make virtually no sense to the casual reader or, likely, any other kind of reader, come to think of it. I originally wrote T.E.A.R.S. back in November 2013 whilst questioning my validity and slackening the reigns of reality. I was in a dark place for sure and that is perhaps the only thing which will become abundantly clear when reading the following unhinged sermon. My first consideration when attempting to make sense of it myself was that it had absolutely no place on the site and should therefore be promptly trashed. However, should you swim the rivers frequently, then you will know that I’m nothing if not sincere. Thus, I shall leave it be. It may well be one of the most ridiculous pieces of literature I have ever released but it speaks volumes for how I was feeling at the time. One only needs look at me now, nearly two years after the fact, to realize that the fog has lifted immensely. I may never be considered what you would regard as normal but, at least, I still possess a fair clutch of my marbles. T.E.A.R.S. was fashioned during my most desolate hour and, while it may a mess of gargantuan proportions, it still originated from the soul.
Trust, Emote, Arrange, Rearrange, Smile
Boys don’t cry; there’s a dash of truth in that you know. I harbor my fair share of fears but produce precious little in the way of tears. Right now, I’m in the throes of mental ovulation, and have long since learned the ebb and flow of my cycle. If truth be known; I’m actually enjoying watching the oviums plummet as I’m at my most unrestrained when menstrual. All things considered, it’s all coming together rather swimmingly. I consider myself something of a heavy bleeder; must have quite a rambunctious troupe of oviums backed up in the silo.
Gushing with regularity is commonplace but tears? Tears are far less frequent. A man like Keeper cries through his fingers and, I shall let you in on a little secret here, they replenish the Crimson Quill. Should I not change my name to Keeper of the Blubbering Quill? Not on my shift and to suggest such is truly preposterous. My peepers are my bleeders; rivulets form each time I learn, yearn, love, fuck, sing, dance, play a rubberized viola with a walrus whisker. I may dance like a septic cowboy; but take a look at these shiny brogues my dear fellow. I know how to slide.
I know I’m making precious little sense right now but I urge you to roll with it as best as you can. I shall attempt at keeping the bleed to a minimum but menstrual prose is a decidedly messy affair. Harsh lines appear; edges close in around you. Heart opens wide but this is a two-way vessel. 1 in, 1 out and strict dress code, that being no dress code whatsoever. Everything intensifies like an electrified cock-ring. My woes begin to strangulate; just like the trash compactor from Star Wars but without the helpful wookie to bail me out.
Must be one of Dr. Cagliari’s well-placed traps; the treacherous swine. I feel isolated, lacerated, and asphyxiated, but, in the self-same instance, adjudicated and never more elated, reliably stated. I’m a happy hobo or Nomadic Joe as they know me around these parts. Ridiculousness abound; ever since sharing scones with Andy Warhol, I appear to be vacating my mind shaft. Pretty sure he spiked them.
The Stubborn Tears of Nomad Joe
Up in the mountains in this quaint getaway
lives a curious fellow with little to say
he sits with head bowed, not a word ever spoken
I live in vain hope that this silence is broken
Word has it this vagabond’s been here for years
desperately trying to find those lost tears
misplaced years ago, his well long since ran dry
you’re wasting your time if you wish him to cry
I trod on his toes and set fire to his hair
didn’t mean to be harsh, I just wished he would share
he looks set to burst and it shouldn’t be long
but his will is unbreakable, game face is strong
I rented some movies, the saddest I knew
it seemed a sure-fire way of making him blue
we watched every last film together one night
while I cried like a fool his reaction was slight
I was fairly convinced he was starting to crack
so I offered my tissue and patted his back
I knew once he started, that he may never stop
but no tears were forthcoming, not a solitary drop
It just didn’t matter how long I prevailed
For my very best efforts, I seemed destined to fail
one day I sat down, looked him dead in the eye
asked what it would take just to once see him cry
He looked at me blankly as though I were mad
and informed me of why he just never seemed sad
I felt quite uneasy, and a little misled
but I gave him a chance, took in each word he said
“I live here in solitude, surely that is a clue
the one person I’ve seen in forever is you
you’ll be pleased to discern that I cry every day
but it’s simply my choice to hide feelings away”
I learned a most valuable lesson from Joe
there are so many sure things that we think we know
I swore he was cold, no emotions inside
but I’d spared not a thought for a thing called male pride
Fret not as the madness will eventually vacate my system. The cluster is weakening; preparing to drop at any given moment. When they do we can use them to create our own tears or, at least, that’s the plan. My madness is fleeting, over-exertion leads to the most exquisite diversion. But also to aversion; tucked away in a darkened crawl space with LapTop teetering at 14% battery life and rapidly ebbing away. Time to gift wrap this shit before CyberNet strike. They control the battery life, you see, and enjoy nothing more than overseeing as that tear forms. I’d make an example of it and collect it in my bottle but would likely grow thirsty and guzzle it straight back down as it’s thirsty work this crying game.
How many times to do I cry? How often do I die? How high is the sky? How many apples in a baker’s pie? There’s so much I could ask myself but it is unlikely I would ever retrieve the answers. I have no grasp on the Crimson Quill when menstruating; my grip slackens yet, at the same time, is tighter than ever before. Safe in the danger; like a bairn in a manger. I cry every day; every time that we play. Tears for your fears. Show me said fear and I’ll cry you a river. They’re more precious than air but a devil to shed; saline sopping morsels of lives we once led. Moreover, they prefer to feed in the dark.
Life can be one hell of a Dita Von Teese and, more often than not, it all goes a touch John Cleese. I’ve confined myself inside my mind as remain desperate to learn of its meaning. I’ll solve this crime despite any pesky kids as I wish to share midnight snacks with Scooby. However, I fully intend on pounding the living mutt out of Scrappy as he has no place whatsoever in the mystery machine. Knowledge is really nothing more than porridge. It’s thick, clotted, and reportedly the best way to start your day each night.
Now I’m beginning to feel like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. Actually, that one did make me blub. Stop it, you’ll have me snivelling. I’m searching for a code, the key to my most restricted tear vaults. Hitting touch-pads like Jobe but all access is denied and the lawnmower is on lockdown. One day I will decipher the code and, when I do, you’ll be the first and last to know. This tin man has a heart you see; in fact I have a thousand. Each bleeds love and it’s a veritable banquet; all you can eat but nothing you can afford.
The most insane thing is that I know how sane I am. I understand my own neon signage, if my daddy zone tweak then I dash out my monster with nary a quibble but many a dribble. So why does it feel as though I’m writing in riddle? Will you fetch me a seat while I pull out my fiddle. Just because I go ass to mouth doesn’t make me the centipede! Just keep loving me unconditionally I beg, my sorrow manifests in ways of macabre madness but they are at least mildly sane. I’m just Rich after all.
Actually, I just about made sense of that. For the record, the poem is all new, when reading my original verse I realized it was simply rubbish. I felt embarrassed just reading it back and couldn’t put you through that. Plus, I did a little spring cleaning as much of my prose was borderline illegible. For the most part, however, it’s untouched. Moreover, I can get a vague sense of what I was attempting to say. At the time of writing I was all out of continues and prepared for the ultimate game over screen to incessantly flash before my very eyes. Put simply; I was done. I had been dealing with personal heartbreak for two months when I sat down that chilly November evening and shed T.E.A.R.S. and, therein lies its relevance. For the first time in years; I cried. So you see, I simply cannot go all Machiavellian and hit that delete tab as, it may mean precious little to most of the free world, but it did mean something to me.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)
Teese For Fears: Dine with Dita