No Nostalgia Sundays: The (Dead) Flowers of Regret

No Nostalgia Sundays: The (Dead) Flowers of Regret

I have decided to begin posting older work on Sundays, for the sake of housecleaning, cataloguing, reminiscing, etc. This decision is, more than anything, selfish pragmatism: I am currently suffering from a severe lack of free time, and my creative output is coming more slowly (but still steadily).

I will also try to give some sort of explanatory introduction to each piece in regards to where I was at when I composed it and any other relevant little tidbits. For this first little number, I don’t have much to say other than it’s a dope/lovesick threnody of mourning for Camille that I composed a year or so after she split. If you don’t know who I’m referring to, try reading this first.

I will try to, as much as possible*, refrain from criticizing or critiquing these older pieces, many of which I feel are the ill-formed flailings of a kid trying to find his own artistic voice.

But, after all, context is everything. If nothing else, then these pieces will serve as a testament to my own development as an artist and, most importantly, as a human being.

And also that I, like, totally missed Camille…

The Dead Flowers of Regret

I miss you in the way a shiftless war loser laments a phantom limb,
grasping in vain at the once-familiar
and meeting nothing but sweat-stained sheets
and nameless defeats,
only mine has a name:

I miss you like an idiot savant misses the culminating point:
it’s not entirely his fault,
but it’s entirely his folly.

I miss you like a reluctant retiree
who longs to return to the hustle and bustle of the work week,
for at least then he had something to wake up for in the morning
and a reason to keep his mustache dapper
and his face smelling proper.

I miss you like a saintly hermit misses mass.
I take communion in secret,
far away from the object of adoration I whisper to
in the quiet darkness–
God would never hold it against me,
but I sure as hell know the difference.
Thoughts of losing you are more painful than all the poena damnis
promised to the most immoral sinner’s immortal soul.

I miss you like a hopeful immigrant misses the proverbial boat,
left standing on the dirty coast of short-changed cosmic souls,
staring across a shiny, misleading sea of possibilities
as his one shot at happiness sails over the horizon.
I know I’ll likely drown, but I dive right in,
though I can barely swim and the water is frigid and black
with no end in sight.
I would rather die trying to reach you
than teach myself to live without you.

I miss you like Odysseus misses his home,
and no amount of sirens
or suitors
or shipwrecks
can change that.

I miss you like the morning star misses its firmament,
and no amount of fog
or forecasts
or flashbacks
can change that.

I miss you like Sampson misses his hair,
because you give me strength
and support
and something to live for.
Without you, I collapse on the temple floor,
the stone pillars of my enemies crashing down around me.
But I won’t fight back
because you’re already gone
along with my wig.


*I’m not perfect: Think you could throw me another simile there, bud? Might not be enough as is.


11 responses »

  1. … and all poor Dante ever wanted was his Beatrice back. Poe, his Lenore. Sterling burns for Camille. You’re part of a proud tradition, darling.

  2. Pingback: Praise Sunday: Super Deluxe Family Edition | I am a heathen.

  3. Pingback: elective affinity | Reason & Existenz

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