Well hello there you inimitable minx! Much obliged am I for your kind patience during my priority re-calibration exercises. Luckily you rated.

Very excited to say I’m actually going to publish new poetry today. It has been particularly long since this website lived up to its supposed namesake and I’m rather looking forward to at last doing so again.

First though, some linguistic matters of the greatest import. Why do foment and ferment mean the same thing? Unless you’re getting wasted anyway. Flammable and inflammable? Seriously? In-ideal fire prevention jargon! This must be why I haven’t seen Smokey the Bear in time. Either that or his second-hand, smoking induced emphysema is finally slowing him up some. Poor Smokey, he also worked in a series of cloudy strip joints and after-hours bars earlier in his career. At least until discovering his limitless passion for human flesh and the ease at which it could be obtained. Remember, only YOU can prevent florist choirs!

As promised, below is a relatively new piece. I have continued authoring new works despite my reticence publishing of late. Wordplay is an essential element of my existence and I could not stem the torrent of advancing depravity even were I to desire such a thing. I’ll throw some context your way in the debrief, enjoy!

Miss. T. Mourning, August 27, 2018.

Coldly diaphanous, vapors thin

Clandestinely encircles within

Redemption absent internal pain

Likely not worth the casual strain

Nothing in life meaningful is free

Atonement is bound by same decree

Truest intent’s pure restitution

Regardless our own contribution

Math and love and music will transcend

Our hate and division in the end.

Despite its brevity this piece explores, rather succinctly perhaps, a couple of themes of great depth. The concept of unearned redemption and, more importantly for today’s article, making amends when you personally are not directly at fault. This is a concept a younger me would have railed strongly against. The proposal that I be held liable for the acts of others was anathema to my fractured principles. I’m sure Jordan Peterson would have extolled the virtues of such a thought. That guy is totally high on his own supply, just that “his supply” is a self-imposed echo chamber of crudely misconstrued masculinity and poor self-esteem.

Anyway, I now consider holding yourself, or much more often your ancestors by proxy, accountable for their belligerence is the height of nobility. For instance, we screwed over our Indigenous friends big-time. Whether intentionally or otherwise, the modern impact is still easily seen. While thus far avoiding doing harm to any Native chums I still feel obliged to assist in some way.

Now let’s take a step back and look down on this from above, cleaning up someone else’s mess, whether spilled milk and tears or genocide, is true virtue. An innate pseudo-proclivity towards periodic selflessness to random strangers may be one of the few enviable traits we humans possess. 

Finally, the poem closed out referencing the trinity of human connection. Language’s lowest common denominators are morphisms no more. Don’t bother looking that up, it’s not a thing, just some residual brain sludge left on the page.

Be happy my friends! Not happy? Be optimistic! This too shall pass, and if it doesn’t, you’ll never know because chances are you’re dead by then anyway. 🙂

One Love,

Alex Blaikie

Categories: poetry writing

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dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.