I am fond of long goodbyes
as though they were a long banquet
not equivalent to the portrayal of the last meal because there was no betrayal for coins —-
no deceptive kiss on the cheek
I love the drippingness of sweet words
Hopes that could leap out and embrace
A resolution to a conversation that may have gone wrong; ebbed and flow bile in stead of black humours. The miasma of it churning out may be placated by the salts and coals and waters of a peaceable parting. A promising of next time affairs being gently etched and understandingly bitter but less acerbic in the end.
The sly judas is anti-intimacy
not everyone favours the long kiss
brevity is wit right or so they think
a peck on the cheek is fine; two makes the sweet couplet. But a pentameter is not necessarily short…. a sonnet requires the taste of stanzas. While I wait to encholate on the compositions of tongues and fingertips I get a spurt of half-line codes. Deception becomes the perception. A perfunctory peck becomes as tragic as silver coins. Time is money. People have other things to do.
While I who wanted a banquet
Satiate with a diet of shorter, odder meals — I must patiently wait to meet my parallel, my paradox, eating to wait whilst everyone on queue perhaps ponders on the delicacies of mastication.—-
I feel alone.
And I have forgotten how to write.
once I use to flirt with linguistic possibilities
and now I just don’t do anything…
I don’t write anymore
writing has not been killed in me
but I don’t know what to write
or, how to write
or, is it makes sense to me to write?
I asked myself this question
as I write this, and in the writing what I wrote may be a start or not}
I always tried to be hopeful; I still am
I just think I am too old
my youthful exuberance has failed me
my life is nothing but security and in that I found insecurities
I had and have passions but who wishes to know them or understand – does it really matter?
Perhaps, I have failed for now.
perhaps, I won’t fail again.
But…if failures means I have tried
isn’t that evidence enough for some kind of existence…
Lattimer is an artist who makes photography really artistic, surreal and exciting. Doing series of all kinds that tells stories his photography makes new avenues of social and philosophical discussions.
ORIGINAL ARTWORK BY J E LATTIMER © 2016 J E LATTIMER ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
For anyone in the world, especially South Asia and South Asian origins, we know this to be true. But this is also true to anyone in the West. Think of slut-shaming as a male centred economy, of girls be sent home not to distract males, of females being looked upon as inferior, as females being looked upon as suspect to getting pregnant, keeping girls chaste and not brazen, modest and in so killing their sexualities and putting them up for domesticated auction, told to be less ambitious, told to be less emotional and if logical a “cold bitch” by nature, innate talents culled for who wants to marry a talented women. I have just listed some atrocities against women. I should have included female infanticide, foeticide, genital mutilation and all of that. Ther are many involved. We have made an economy where women of all types are second class and even to get value one has to be “masculine”, “tomboyish” one season and “femme fatale” and feminine the next. Males usually have more stable identities if not stable lives. Why did we create this culture of rape and devaluement espaces me.
This poem transforms a relationship into different categories. I loved it because it showed the very nature of failure in communication and all the rage of infidelities.