When you’re twenty the world feels like it’s against you. Early twenties, maybe further, seems like hell. Pain loosened in the system and travelling the blood system like a clot. You’re so lost in that state, wondering where you are and where you’re going. When really it’s beautiful. Indecision, the lack of long term plans or anchors choking up your life. Freedom, the sweet scent clogging your nostrils, creating fear lurking and looming in your brain. I can never tell one month from the next, the blur they create. Many ask me why I dwell in painful relationships. I love them. It’s intense. It feels like something. Whether good or bad they give me drive and motivation. Maybe that’s the worst. I’ve learned to make desperation and pain my drive. Human’s are incredible, the consolation and creation we find in destruction. I find I write best when in intense pain. Maybe that is what the romantic poets meant, and maybe I need to investigate this further as I feel the words ‘romance’ and ‘romantic’ have been warped by pop culture. Thank you Nicholas Sparks for destroying the world that little bit more. I am now going to go bolster my argument on a stomach full of alcohol. Let us look to our wonder, wikipedia;

Romanticism (or the Romantic era/Period) was an artistic, literary, and intellectual movement that originated in Europe toward the end of the 18th century and in most areas was at its peak in the approximate period from 1800 to 1850. Partly a reaction to the Industrial Revolution,^[1] it was also a revolt against aristocratic social and political norms of the Age of Enlightenment and a reaction against the scientific rationalization of nature.^[2] It was embodied most strongly in the visual arts, music, and literature, but had a major impact on historiography,^[3] education^[4] and the natural sciences.^[5] Its effect on politics was considerable and complex; while for much of the peak Romantic period it was associated with liberalism and radicalism, in the long term its effect on the growth of nationalism was probably more significant.

The movement validated strong emotion as an authentic source of aesthetic experience, placing new emphasis on such emotions asapprehension, horror and terror, and awe—especially that which is experienced in confronting the sublimity of untamed nature and its picturesque qualities, both new aesthetic categories. It elevated folk art and ancient custom to something noble, made spontaneity a desirable characteristic (as in the musical impromptu), and argued for a “natural” epistemology of human activities as conditioned by nature in the form of language and customary usage. Romanticism reached beyond the rational and Classicist ideal models to elevate a revived medievalism and elements of art and narrative perceived to be authentically medieval in an attempt to escape the confines of population growth, urban sprawl, and industrialism, and it also attempted to embrace the exotic, unfamiliar, and distant in modes more authentic than Rococo chinoiserie, harnessing the power of the imagination to envision and to escape.

Although the movement was rooted in the German Sturm und Drang movement, which prized intuition and emotion over Enlightenment rationalism, the ideologies and events of the French Revolution laid the background from which both Romanticism and the Counter-Enlightenment emerged. The confines of the Industrial Revolution also had their influence on Romanticism, which was in part an escape from modern realities; indeed, in the second half of the 19th century, “Realism” was offered as a polarized opposite to Romanticism.^[6]Romanticism elevated the achievements of what it perceived as heroic individualists and artists, whose pioneering examples would elevate society. It also legitimized the individual imagination as a critical authority, which permitted freedom from classical notions of form in art. There was a strong recourse to historical and natural inevitability, a Zeitgeist, in the representation of its ideas.

I’m a romanticist. Yes, I believe in love at first sight but not the popularised idea that it all works out in the end. It ends in pain. You chose the wrong people with the initial chemistry. You chose the wrong path. But what that path teaches you is important. It strips away parts of you that make you question your very core beliefs about the world, yourself and your fears. Mine are being alone, being unloved, but more so having no one to love. No one to spend my love and efforts on. As unfeminist as it sounds, I want a man to spend myself on, to give my effort to. I believe in the strength of self, but in some warped way I believe that strength is proved through the love and giving you show to someone else. The sacrifices you give. I have met people who feel the same yet the connection was wrong. I prefer the wrong connection it would seem. I have learned more through love than anything else. It is what I believe in. I believe in emotion and feeling, my gut, rather than the rational action. I will return to the wrong to prove the strength I have rather than just giving up on something that won’t work. One day I hope it returns it’s effort. Maybe it won’t. This my personal interpretation of romanticism. But what is a Boosh’s drunken ramblings to the realism of the world. 

It was a light enough day, the sun was shining in drifts along the fields but there was a touch of wind that killed any strong warmth. He was standing at the front porch, looking out on the garden. The pine trees were scattered around, shading the car, a lone silage bale sat gleaming in the few shafts of sun filtering through. He could hear voices drift up the road, some girls laughing, and the crunch of gravel. Excitement flittered inside him. He was not used to visitors. It was quiet today, and his trip in the small gold car to the shop had been uneventful. Maybe this would be uplifting, as he had become bored of reading. He slipped out the large door to see them approach, wearing vibrant yellow jackets that were clearly not cut for the female form. He hoped that he looked presentable enough, that the sand coloured chino’s matched the beige jumper he had slipped on this morning. It had a picture of a man fishing on the front, which he liked. He also had his best shoes on, boat shoes as they called them, even though he never went boating. He had read about it though. “Hello.” he greeted them. They were smiling, with a warm aura, and he liked it. He could talk to these girls. “Hello, how are things? are you enjoying the day?” One asked, beaming at him. “Yes, yes, it’s a nice day. I was just at the shop earlier. All the libraries are closed today though.” “Oh, the library! Do you like reading?!” He grew more excited, their enthusiasm catching. “Yes, yes, I love to read, I’ll show you what I am reading!” He nodded solemnly, making his way into the front porch. He slipped a book from the shelf and returned to them. “What do you think this says?” he asked, his voice pitching higher than usual in the atmosphere of the moment. “Nihango?” one said, the other looking bemused yet confused at the same time. “Nihango…” he pronounced proudly, “Is Japanese for Japanese!” There was a giggle after that, which made the happiness explode in his breast. These girls found him funny. “What made you want to learn Japanese?” asked the ponytailed girl. He muttered some words about having been learning it for a while now, and how he enjoyed it. The other girl asked for a glass of water, which he rushed off to get, worrying if he left them for those few seconds would they disappear. He was not used to guests, and he liked these ones. They were fun, and they wanted to listen. He brought her back a tumbler, the water beads dotting the sides, and handed it to her ever so carefully so none would spill, just like he had carried it from the kitchen to the porch for her. Ever so careful and caring. It would not do to spill a drop. He talked with the ponytail for a while, scooting out of the porch to stand nearer them. He asked were they walking, to which they replied yes. “You must be very fit!” he exclaimed, shocked people could walk so far between such isolated houses. They chattered a little more about walking. The ponytail was wearing nice shoes. She must have nice feet, which he told her, showing them his broken arches and the prosthetic sole he must wear inside his lovely brown boat shoes. The grey socks were sweaty, showing lines of darker on the plain grey they normally were. it was like a rawshack test on his foot. They were very consoling of his disability, which was nice. The Glass of water Girl was listening quietly, interjecting now and again as she sipped from the tumbler. She was nice too, funnier than the other girl. Ponytail was just very nice. They asked if the main bill payer was here. He was a bit disappointed. They weren’t here to talk to him. “No, my mum isn’t here, she has gone out and I don’t know when she’ll be back.” He stared off into the distance of the sheep dotted fields.  The glass of water was finished, they were leaving. They said they would return later to chat to his mother, they would come back to talk to him. He brightened at this. he would see them again. “Oh that would be nice! It would be lovely. It was nice talking to ye.” he smiled, looking from one to the other. Then they were crunching away, their voices giggling and singing in the silence of the warm day. He sighed. He wondered when mother would be home, it was far too quiet now. He picked up the book and began trying to teach himself Japanese again. Maybe one day he’d make it there. He was only thirty now, there was still time.

I resent you with my knickers.

I wholeheartedly despise you with them.

Every time I slipped them from my thighs

to my ankles for your pleasure.

Ecstacy caked in humiliation.

Sexless sex followed with loss and grief.

Deep breathing flowing on my back,

pressing to my neck. 

A slattern and a slut, falling to pieces

In the hair dusted arms of you.

Bra straps shunted from my shoulders.

Pyjama tops tugged from my torso.

Bottoms shrugged from my legs.

My clothing tosses you disparaging looks,

and questions me.

Insolent, depraved and heartbroken.

Reducing myself to some flesh and fat

with every item removed.

Rolling over on my back

like some stupid naive puppy to be played with.

Stroke my belly.

Just make me feel loved.

There is no us, is there?

There’s whatever happens between us,

but there is no us.

There’s no hands clenched

around each other in affection

or lips pressed to fatty cheek flesh

in appropriations of adoration.

There’s no happy moments

where grins are exchanged

or booming laughter of delight 

at something silly we each said.

All there is is broken looks

where one feels skewered by the other

on some sharpened words

meant to slice the others feelings

into shreds and ribbons.

All there is are minutes where

the bodies are pressed together

in a cuddle meant for some hedonistic purpose

neither of us want but collide towards anyway.

There is no us, it’s just a mess.

Ce Mort the old lady whispered from her chapped mouth. Ce Mort,

As she waxed the moon flaxen.

It glinted silver,

bathing the barren land of back yards.

Stars glittered morosely above pitched fences,

oil tanks and over-grown grass.

With a stinging fist the cold lanced the air,

leaving it numb to suckle on the puffs

of mist seeping from my lips

as I stood rootedly to the spot,

head slung back to examine the

straight edged, square, overbearing modern houses

with their plain wooden window frames

and plain dirty yellow paint.

The world is dead past midnight

despite those blazing balls of fire and the mirror made of rock.

I’ve laid splay legged here before, arms outstretched,

on nights when the world seemed small.

Same view knocked miles apart and askance by life’s way.

What is geography?

Nothing but a bit of tarmac, a square of bush and coarse grass.

You’re welcome for the pleasant wishes I bestowed upon you for the day.

You clearly need them considering the humour you’re in. 

We’ll exchange a few text messages of sarcastic 

You could never say we have rapport, more so a game of pong

where insults float across a screen or a dinner table.

I see myself slowly morphing to your style,

Vicious words and manipulation engraved on romantic relationships.

Impatience and vehemence scalding friendships with my quickened temper

flaring at the first sign of conflict. 

I wish I was more a-political with a filtered mouth and conservative emotions

that ran less riot. I wish they were Irish.

I wish they were stoic and silent, not even unleashed when drunken stupor sets in. 

I wish I wasn’t you.

She clasped her hands in her lap.

“I want to fornicate on the couch.

It has been so long since I fornicated,

lounging on the couch.

I want to fornicate on the couch.”

He sighs, spreading out his arms,

lounging on the couch.

How do you respond to that?

He sighs, spreading out his arms.

“I don’t want to fornicate on the couch.”

How do you respond to that?

Her face scrunches in wrinkled rejection.

I don’t want to fornicate on the couch

since I slipped and slivered out of love.

Her face scrunches in wrinkled rejection.

He considers all he has thought.

Since I slipped and slivered out of love

with your slutty, garish mouth.

He considers all he has thought.

She is not what he wants.

With your slutty, garish mouth

proffering filthy jokes and insinuations

she is not what he wants,

no more virginal than he was a year ago.

Proferring filthy jokes and insinuations

she attached herself in this life, to this couch.

No more virginal than he was a year ago.

Deserving of the maledictions, control and abuse.

She attached herself in this life, to this couch

hoping it would be worth her while.

Deserving the maledictions, control and abuse.

Now she understood.

Hoping it would be worth her while;

“I want to fornicate on the couch.”

Now she understood,

lounging on the couch.

“I want to fornicate on the couch.”

He sighs, spreading out his arms.

lounging on the couch.

How do you respond to that?

Paint bubbles puckering on 

the skin of the sink,

oil bursts refracting H2O

into a defensive wall after

the salve of water pouring out

to create smokey black prints

wafting through the liquid

that scoops towards the slotted

hole that drags it to the drain.

Like ripples on lake face, these clouds

chug out into the vast expanse

without dilution of colour.

Burying the cool of aluminium. 

Shine the grey and black,

but not so dark yet.

Stuck in hell,

rigged in the combine,

lost in life.