Shame is the name of the game and the flame that burns and turns the tide of feeling that leaves me staring at the ceiling

March 14th, 2014, 8am

It was 7°C with nil significant cloud. The breeze was light.

Shame is the name of the game and the flame that burns and turns the tide of feeling that leaves me staring at the ceiling looking for meaning where, of course, there is none and at no time is the shame tangible, manageable, as if it were something of any substance - substantial, less than financial, more than existential but drifting lifting me above the bed and out through the ceiling leaving, grieving, for the mother, or some other lover, to hold me at a distance, love with hard resistance, demanding its own insistence on the things it feels the lack of, which I would see the back of, if only I had the courage, mother courage, collect my luggage, embittered baggage, lost and found, turned around to spark a pain fuelled by shame, shame, shame, your shaming me is your way of gaming me, playing, laying me in the grave, longing for me to save your soul, make you whole as I demise, compromise, despise the things we do for lack of truth since our dysfunctional youth we have built this house of guilt never having the grace to stand face to face and say you are free just to be what you can be without reference to me, me, me why is it always all about me, me, me and you, you, you pushing through the blue and the black of the heart attack brought on by the lack of love, below or above, for we also know that there is no god to ease our pain again and again but hanging there on cross and nail the christ cries out in faith and doubt for all who follow today and tomorrow the vague illusion of faiths intrusion on life’s diffusion of all we knew then or now, why, when, where, and how do we find the grace to care, care to tear down the facade, the house of cards for the emotionally retard, retarded, regarded as the ones who won the one that lost the plot from have to have not, beget and begot, so much more than the lot that lands without warning on the cold bleak morning of realisation that all of creation is moaning and groaning in longing for humanity’s wrong thing - the curse of shame, the cause, the blame, for you, for me, and - everybody?

David Wade and Adrian said thanks.

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Hadge Hughes

Dreamer - Writer - Father - Lover

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