HIS DARK SIDE

His Dark Sutra: Inspired By Wuthering Heights

The linen fabric stretched taut on the washing line, whipping with sodden dismay, as the wind set it. 

Rain fell, pelting the ground like ricocheting pebbles. The clouds appeared as darkened hues of ashen grey. They stalked eerily across the sky. 

The cottage door creaked, moaning with each gust of wind. Grass hung limp, bruised under the weight of autumn weather.

Catherine ran in the beating wind.

Gasping for breath as the storm pressed against her heaving breast. Her summer dress clinging to her thighs as she pressed forwards with each muddied footstep. The rain thrashing her skin. Her exposed arms fought against the rising tempest.

She searched desperately for Heathcliff. 

It would prove to be in vain.

He would never return.

And lonely within the cavalcade of dank green grass stood a single rose. Burnished in red. It fought for life.

His Dark Sutra: Inspired By Wuthering Heights

The linen fabric stretched taut on the washing line, whipping with sodden dismay, as the wind set it.

Rain fell, pelting the ground like ricocheting pebbles. The clouds appeared as darkened hues of ashen grey. They stalked eerily across the sky.

The cottage door creaked, moaning with each gust of wind. Grass hung limp, bruised under the weight of autumn weather.

Catherine ran in the beating wind.

Gasping for breath as the storm pressed against her heaving breast. Her summer dress clinging to her thighs as she pressed forwards with each muddied footstep. The rain thrashing her skin. Her exposed arms fought against the rising tempest.

She searched desperately for Heathcliff.

It would prove to be in vain.

He would never return.

And lonely within the cavalcade of dank green grass stood a single rose. Burnished in red. It fought for life.

His Dark Story: I, Coward

The Recreational Park was a sports field that backed onto our school. Affectionately dubbed ‘the wreck’ it was well used by the students who would venture there during school breaks, sometimes with a small bottle of Bacardi. Young teenage lovers’ would find a quiet spot on a park bench to kiss and cavort.

Often when the school day would end, there would be an exodus of students who would filter into the park for an hour of shenanigans before heading home. A number of roads and alleyways intersected the park which therefore acted as a central thoroughfare for pedestrians.

About ten years after leaving High School, I had walked through the park to reminisce. It had become a shell of the park that I fondly remembered playing in as a child now having become haven for drug addicts. Their discarded needles recklessly thrown onto the grass field.

But this isn’t about declining standards.

This is about something that happened when I was 15 years old, walking home from school. I was dressed in my uniform comprising a white shirt, school tie and grey sweater. School had finished at 3.30pm and I was meandering carefree, dragging my shoes as I walked. As I crossed a road which intersected the park, my bag strap slung loosely over my chest, I heard my name being called. It was a class mate nicknamed ‘Mint’.

He came running up. He was out of breath and wide-eyed. There was blood, splattered across his shirt.

Gasping, his first words were, “Suki, I need to come to your house… I can’t go home looking like this.” His nose looked broken, but it was hard to tell with blood smeared across his face.

"What happened?" were the words stumbling from my mouth.
Mint replied, his voice quivering “Jalloogan.”

He only had to say the name. Stories about the infamous Jalloogan careened through my mindscape.

My eyes scanned over Mint’s clothing. Part of his shirt was torn under the armpit. Blood which continued to drip from Mint’s nose had soaked into his shirt. The stain over the front of his chest looked like he had feasted on raw meat, allowing the blood from the carcass to flow down his face.

And now with the mention of Jalloogan’s name, I already felt myself shrinking into my skinny frame.

"I need to clean up at your house," he said with conviction, his face replete with the look of desperation.

I tried to find a solution.

Brainstorming.

Was there anywhere else I could take him? What would my parents think if they saw him? How would I explain walking down the street with a bloody friend to neighbours? Could I just walk away and pretend I hadn’t seen him?

I felt nauseous.

My school wasn’t peaceful by any means. There was an abundant supply of bullies. The hierarchical scheme had been accepted for generations. Some children were victimized. It was academic natural selection. Every couple of weeks we’d congregate at the wreck to watch students fight out their issues, fist against fist. Usually it was boys, however it wasn’t uncommon for girls to get violent. I remember those fights. Claws and torn hair.

Jalloogan’s name was enough to send shivers down the spine of any of the children who attended Featherstone High School. He was a new entrant, having been expelled from Dormers Wells School for punching a teacher. He had a violent disposition, which in and of itself wasn’t unusual for boys who had grown up in West London.

The difference however, was that he’d been learning Karate for a long time. His elder brother had been fighting for some years on the national circuit, and it was only a matter of time before junior started competing. He’d shown an aptitude for the formal training patterns and uncharacteristically, conformed well to the rigid rules. But I was during sparring sessions when he first began to show his more savage nature.

After practising for some years, Jalloogan had built a reputation around using his skill against pretty much anyone who annoyed him. He fought and fought on the streets,seldom walking away with anything other than a smile and spring to his step. Meanwhile his unfortunate victims would be left licking their own bloody wounds.

I feared him on a personal level. He had achieved something that I was incapable of, mastery of Karate. It was only 3 years earlier that I had abandoned my attempt to learn the art. I’d given up easily. It was too hard, too tough and I simply couldn’t overcome how inferior I felt compared to the other students.
For all his faults and juvenile traits, Jalloogan had proved his self worth by toughing it out. He’d succeeded at martial arts where I’d proved to be a miserable failure.

I had no excuse.

Friends have to prove their worth and just as I was about to welcome Mint to my house, a figure came jogging up. He had the typical trait of a shorter male trying to affirm his own alpha status. His arms held wider than the average male, to provide a sense of dominion as his body cut through aether.

I shook.

Jalloogan had a strange cockney lilt to his voice. Strange because he’d grown up, like us, on the west side of London.
“Oi.” he grumbled. “Safe Mint, come back. It’s all safe bruv,” he said, placing a comforting arm on Mints shoulder.

Jalloogan was ignoring me.

There was something suspicious in his manner, seedy perhaps.
I could sense Mint’s reluctance, he tried to ease away saying “it’s cool Jall, I need to go.”

Jalloogan’s demeanour changed and his hand gently restrained Mints’ arm. He tried to pull him, wanting to coax him back in the direction of the park.

"It’s cool? I wanna talk to you bruv. Come," he commanded.
I stepped forwards.

"Jalloogan, leave it bruv," I said.

Jalloogan’s eyes finally shifted to me.

He stared into me. I became his sole focus. The universe ceased to exist at that second. From Ancient Mesopatamiam cultures to Spectrum Computers, all history was suddenly erased. All that existed were eyes that glanced past the bony frame of my body, looking deep into my soul. The air simmered under the heat of his gaze.

"Who the fuck are you!?"

I stood dumbstruck.

Agitated by the lack of my immediate response, Jalloogan lurched forwards. He was shorter than me. The tension increasing under the weight of silence hanging over us.
“Who the fuck are you???!” his voice booming.

His chest jutting forwards, chin lowered.

Eyes squinting.

He was primed for action.

"Leave it Jall…" Mint interjected. He was a real friend, someone who was willing to take the fall for me. Perhaps he pitied me. I was after all, a coward.

I had proved that time and time again. I proved it when I stopped going to Karate classes. I had proved it by using my Asthma as an excuse to being physical. I had proved it when I stopped playing Chess because I’d been beaten once. My entire life, up until the age of 15 was about excuses and avoidance.

I hadn’t faced my fears. No even once.

My breathing became shallow.

Jalloogan had one final instruction for me.

"Fuck off, before I do the same thing to you." His head pointing to what he had done to Mint only moments earlier. Time moved slowly. I couldn’t think, my mind cascading with information overload. Stunned into complete inaction I stood motionless. My arms felt heavy at my sides.

My legs, cast in concrete.

Fear.

"Leave Suki," Mint beckoned.

Without a second thought, I turned and walked away.

I was destined to remain a coward.

His Dark Sutra: Morning After

This is the morning after
Tears on muddied orphan faces
Displaced misfits
Where pain replaces laughter

Morning after
It’s a broken policy
Where war on a non-existent, dissident beast
Is war on people with ancestry stretching to the Middle East
(Us all)

Morning after
Where rapists walk free
Yet same sex lovers are sentenced
To serve as a punishment for their collective failure to give up love
And refuse the path of repentance

Morning after
Where the disparity of living within this diaspora
Where the rich eat - lean organic cut marbled meat
And the not so fortunate dine on food unfit and un-fine
While we all grow spiritually poorer

Morning after
Corrupt politicians bereft of moral decision making
Pull wool over our eyes, sweep dust under our rug
And Pharma make us wide-mouthed, furiously feeding us with drugs
As if somehow our tragedy can be muffled by euphoric pills we’re forced into taking

And after the morning comes

We wake up -

Still feeling numb.

(Dedicated to Judyschu)

His Dark Sutra: Diary

19 June 2014

It’s been awhile since I last wrote a diary entry here. It is a time of great change for me spiritually. Each evening is taken with magickal meditation and projection of my vital energy into the aether. Soon, a Hermetics Master will arrive at my home from Thailand. I will undergo an initiation into his method and we will be training for six hours per day.

It grows darker.

His Dark Side

His Dark Side

His Dark Sutra: Contentment

Contentment,
As if the precedent once set
Should last like a still photo
Having once captured a sunset.

Contentment
A thin line that traverses
rocky mountain trails.
Even when it becomes
as plain as day
That lingering thoughts
cast a shadowy veil -

Over something which remains
as plain as day -

As tangible as a moistened lip
Under rain.

That success isn’t measured
by accepting
The fact -

you failed.

Contentment
The yin
To the yang.
With the polarized duality
Opposed by scuppered hope
Purgatory for the damned
Who choose to live
A life of -
resentment.

Contentment.

(dedicated to vpache)

His Dark Sutra: The Kite

As a child,
I’d stand outside under grey mottled skies.
Alone.
I’d wait, with my hair hanging limp
for the tempest winds to blow.

As a child,
I seldom smiled.
Instead,
if your were to gaze at the features of my face
or the lowered tilt
of my head,
you’d often notice I’d stare, into the abyss, or vacant eyed, into empty space.

As a child I’d wait for the subtle hiss
of the wind to rise.
Hoping that it would churn fast enough, to lift - me from the ground,
upwards,
towards loftier heights,
beyond clenched clouds.

As a child,
standing
feet pressing
sorrowful grass,
where flowers once bloomed during summer days -
had wilted, died
and become parchment dried.

I’d wait.
Standing alone.
For the wind to come.
Waiting.
As string hung lank in my small hand.
As my kite, fell - forlorn.

I waited,
endlessly,
hoping to see -
one day
that kite come alive.

To lift.

To fly.

To rise up -

and glide.

(dedicated to esmereldasbeneaththewater)

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His Dark Story: Limits

My story isn’t special.

It’s the journey that of each us take, in greater or lesser for, within our collective lives. We overcome obstinate problems standing in our way. We suffer a multitude of mini-failures. My story is about dusting off your collar and standing tall. It’s about inhaling deeply and pushing. It’s crucial for us to never give up or resign ourselves to acceptance of our intellectual or spiritual limitations.

My story is about striving.

There is no happy ending.

There are instead a few moments of joy and the occasional smile.

Martial arts are the adaptation of principles of nature, absorbed within our bodies.                        “Be like water” Bruce Lee

Martial arts are the adaptation of principles of nature, absorbed within our bodies. “Be like water” Bruce Lee

His Dark Sutra: Stare

Last night,
In the ink black sky,
The moon betrayed me.
With it’s slicing glare,
It splayed me.
Leaving me
Vacant -
Like your empty stare.

His Dark Sutra: Whispering Tears

his-dark-side:

Tears trickle

from suffering eyes

punctured

with salt wounds.

Tears fall into folds

at the edge

of my mouth

where breath becomes

tear stained.

And words

formed of

tears and breath

cascade out,

whispering lamentations

that speak of

"love…

yearning…

loss…”

"Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."

Francis Bacon

"Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."

Francis Bacon

His Dark Sutra: Broken Veined

It’s late
perhaps I waited too long to write
Obsidian mirror, silver tipped spike,
Sharpened - it scratches symbols,
constructed out of clinging vapours.
Broken sockets on fingertips
And blood clotted on bedroom drapes
Where they daub
Swabbed Rorschach shapes.
Poetic rhetorical devices
Laced with hate
Cracked veined
So I grip the clenched vein from wrist
And draw it out with mangled teeth
Twisted - the purple line
Drips red ink
And I write, pouring the contents of mine
dried heart
Until it grows dark
Eyes close
Night comes
Frigid body cold.

His Dark Story: The Coward

It was after I saw the man being bottled in London, aged 18 that I realized how much of a coward I was. Not the type of cowardice that makes a person run away out of fright, not the physical kind. Instead, I was a coward within the deepest layers of my cells. A coward between each strand of hair.

I feared my father, with good reason. He suffered moments of cruelty.

I was raised to fear illness and use my asthma and it’s offshoots as limiting factors.

I feared strength, mostly because I lacked it.

Even when I started studying law at University, I cowered in my seat praying that the lecturer wouldn’t ask me a question due to my fear of public speaking.

I feared the streets, with their watchful eyes.

Ever since being mugged aged 15, I carried around a low level amount of paranoia with me, whenever I ventured out alone.
My teens had also made me suspicious of authority figures. In particular, the police had fucked with me too many times with racial profiling and stop and search procedures. Once, an undercover police car had driven up. Plain clothes policeman had jumped out of the car and before I knew it I was pushed up against a wall, legs and arms splayed. Apparently it was all because I looked like ‘someone’ they were searching for.

Fear. It wasn’t a vague concept to me. It was a stark reality of everyday life.