Let me tell you a story about jealousy:
An emotion once all too dear to me,
Never subject to courtesy –
All of this is now all to clear to me.

Recollected from the past
As I grew into the future:
I can say these things now
Thanks to this most recent suture.

II

Jealousy is an indicator
Both of the relationship and the person.
(I admit this from the start –
Only a fool lies in his art.)

That curious feeling that love
Is possession is to blame –
Ironic, as binding is the antithesis
Of that once-liberating synthesis.

‘You are mine,’ cries the fresh-face
And enthusiastic lover –
‘And I am yours.’ If only
Here, we could pause –

And reflect on the promises made:
We’re together — but we must physically
Part — what then? Here tenuous
Trust takes a toll all too strenuous.

III

That hot potato in your hand,
A metal-plastic casing with
Circuitboards, becomes a risk –
A heart-break hard-disk.

It’s all too easy to ask
‘Where are you — who are you with?’
And it’s all too easy not
To spend a lifetime replying to such rot.

Fear creeps in, seeping in the cracks
Where trust should be. Can
You guess? This relationship
Isn’t meant to be. I call it R.I.P.

IV

But such powerful words weren’t
Always at my disposal –
I had to earn that knowledge
Before my last, and final, proposal.

There were times when I needn’t
Have worried — and times
When I was right to.

Infidelity is a staggering thing –
The obvious weakness, the
Simplest way to turn the strong
To weak — and your rights to wronged.

I’ve felt it once
And I’ll never forget it –
I lost a lot for a long time
–

Silence was an outcome –
I lost my grasp on myself –
I lost friends, I lost respect.
All the things you might expect.

No confidence in sight,
No escape plan –
A lifetime of dreams
Torn apart at the seams.

Nothing clever to say
And no lust for life.
Is it any wonder I withdrew?
If I couldn’t face myself, how could I face you?

Walking around with a weight
To drag — call my Sisyphus.
Not to mention I stayed
(Nonsensical.)
For eighteen months.
(In-fucking-comprehensible.)

I can write this now with a smile
And a flash in my eyes –
But at the time, I was lost.
I’m okay, now, because I earned, then repaid, the cost.

V

So my warning to you? Don’t mess with a bitch.
Regardless the gender, if you tolerate
People with attributes you hate,
Who else is to blame when you’re left in that
fucked-up state?

Some wonderful things have happened this year, but none can top the most recent events (which I will, of course, explain in greater detail in more creative writing). But this has led to a resurgence both in my confidence as a writer and my need to write. In short, it is all explained in this philosophical/literary theory essay here (I promise you it’s not as dry as it sounds — I just didn’t know what else to label it).  

It is the introduction of a ‘poetic alter-ego’, but it is not so simplistic as that. It is me being completely honest and reserving nothing. It is almost always the case that writers say their truest and most profound thoughts in their writing purely because no one can stop them from writing it retrospectively. It is also the reason why many writers become controversial because they have spoken their mind and have no way to retract it. It’s something I have ‘struggled’ (‘internally debated’ is better) with ever since I started writing over seven years ago, with my writing fluctuating depending on which side of the argument I agreed with at the time of writing.

But now I’ve come to the conclusion that I must write what I feel and think, regardless of what anyone thinks. And I mean anyone. But I know that I need to preserve the social status of ‘Luke Labern’, dissociating him from the writer ’Luke Labern’. That is where the alter-ego comes in.

That is the short version, but the essay has much more to it than that.

In terms of how this changes things, I must point you to the seven-part poem I wrote last week entitled ‘The Prognosis of a Passionate Man’. In essence, this was me dissecting ‘Luke Labern’ as both combined person-and-writer and, having analsed him (giving my ‘diagnosis’), explaining that his prognosis (his chances of survival) relied on my no longer witholding anything. So if you take that essay into consideration with that poem, I think you will see exactly what I mean.

Whilst I consider that poem my best ever, the poems I’ve written since have been just as good — if not better. I am in an entirely new vein of form which even I can do nothing but try to unleash. I don’t even feel as if I have control anymore. I refuse to date my work or in any other way ‘contain’ it: I just pick up a pen and write whatever it is that forces me to do so. And things have been, for lack of a better word, ‘magical’.

So look out for these three poems as an example of my poetic alter-ego:

• ‘The Cliché-Killer‘ (the poem which acts as the transition from ‘Passionate Man’ to the alter-ego.)
• ‘You Know Who You Are’ (addressing the ‘wrongs’ I was faced with in 2011, my worst year on this planet, and a blunt address to ‘haters’. It will raise a smile to your lips if you and I see eye to eye, or will make you spit out your apple juice if you don’t like me and are reading for whatever reason. (Because haters always drink apple juice with a straw from a carton.))
• ‘Lost + Found’ (also exploring the transition but in a very interesting way.)
• ‘I Used To’ (again, bluntly explaining why I used to care what people thought of me, and why I no longer do.)

These have all been written since Saturday and their sheer volume (pages and pages and pages) indicates both my renewed vigour for writing and has forced me to split them into various posts to accomodate the reader’s busy lifestyle. So don’t worry about having to pick up where you left off: I split them into entirely manageable chunks.

All I can say is, I promise you that they’re worth reading.

I’ve been wrangling with this issue for a long time – and not just myself, but all writers and almost certainly all people. It’s a conundrum, trying to find a way to talk about things without sounding as if you’re unoriginal, even if you do have interesting and unique things to say. Much like the ‘anxiety of influence’ that poets feel when they realise that the main issues have been described incredibly by the likes of Keats, Shakespeare and Byron, they wonder what they can possibly say. But it’s not that they don’t have things to say: it’s only that they want to release their shackles and tap into the poetic lifeblood that is coursing through their veins – but trying to avoid all the usual phrases and sayings.

It’s for that reason that I stopped writing poetry for a very long time. 

But now I have managing to bypass this anxiety by ignoring this conscious filter, this anxiety, and allowing the blood to flow straight from my veins onto the page: there is a point at which the things one has to say becomes more important than any reception of them. If I have something to say, I utterly have to say it. It no longer matters to me whether Shakespeare has said something similar, or said it better. I simply have to say it. If that means writing without verse, without rhyme, or even clumsily at times, then so be it.

Passion is more important to me now than technical mastery. I allow what technical skills and intuitive writing ability I have to shape those things that literally burst from me. If I keep them in, I quite literally lose my mind and become a very, very strange bundle of emotion that loses all self-control. I become thoroughly disorientated. It strikes me that not everyone has the passion I have for what I do. And of all the attempts that have been made to describe what it is about me that is ‘different’, all have failed – myself included. Passion seems to be a very pertinent word, and so I’m going to use that as a benchmark. Whatever it is I do – and I’m aware of the irony involved in the fact that a writer can’t even come close to describing some of the most important facets of his character – I am passionate about it.

Through use of this handle, or key, as it were, I have been able to not only wrangle with the anxiety of influence – I have been able to pin it to the ground and finish it off. I have banished it from my life and I spend almost every night finding myself turning some music to the limits of volume, pulling out a pad and a pen and writing furiously until I find that some ten or more pages later, I have a poem in at least seven parts. And contrary to the past, I find that I have opened up more avenues for exploration for the future when I have finished, rather than feeling somewhat exhausted. I feel fulfilled in the same sense I always have done – proud – but I start the countdown until the next time I get to unleash all my thoughts and passion. Often this is about twenty seconds later, when I start writing another poem.

The key to all of this, of course, is because the cliché has been killed.

*

Rather, the fear of the cliché has been overcome.

And when one fear has been overcome, that usually signals that whoever has overcome the fear has gained a lot of strength – and a lot of other fears will be conquered either in tandem or in the near future. I can certainly attest to that.

‘Cliché killing’ isn’t simply an empty phrase (but god forbid it ever came a cliché in the future, I don’t think I could handle that irony), though nor is it a catchphrase. It’s simply my way of labelling this newest phase of my career (and life, thanks to the events of this year, especially a few vital successful conquests). It’s my way of reminding myself that my passion for poetry, for prose, for writing shouldn’t be reduced by my appreciation of the greats – it should be redoubled, and I should write without anxiety.

I know for a fact that Shakespeare (replace with any great writer) wasn’t worried about living up to some other standard when he was writing. He simply wrote because he had to – it would have been dangerous to his health not to.

And there is another barrier which is overcome when this passion is tapped into: you stop caring what people think.

I have always been of the mind-set that, if I am able to predict how people will react (which I do seem able to do, for whatever reason), then it is my fault if I choose to write something I know will offend people, even if I truly feel it. The number of times I have paused to write something inflammatory and then stopped myself for this very reason is almost unbelievable.

This is where, precisely, cliché-killing becomes more than words and becomes almost a poetic tattoo. It signals my complete disregard for what others think: critics or dissenters.

(‘Think’ here meaning opinion – a technical critique of whatever I say is always valuable, and someone who takes the time to explore the syntax, semantics of my writing — or otherwise linguistically explore what I have written — is more than entitled to critique my work. I’m referring, here, to those who take a shallow ‘I think that’s bad’ view. Unthinking types.)

Whilst there is a social function I still need to perform as ‘Luke Labern’, the writer Luke Labern has very defined and, perhaps, controversial views and as such, I need to distinguish between the two. So whilst I will continue to bite my tongue – like we all must – to keep my social character, or persona, going, when it comes to writing, this will no longer be the case.

To indicate this, I will be referring to my poetic alter-ego as something different. He is a person who does not care what other people thinks: because he lives in the realm of the mind; in words and in thought. No one and nothing can enter or penetrate his philosophical space. Criticism falls deafly on his ears. In reality, he is dis-engendered. All social etiquette is irrelevant to him: all that exists are the words he writes. The reader can converse with him in the privacy of their mind, and they can leave the text whenever they wish.

He will live longer than Luke Labern, because his words will remain long after the corpse of Luke Labern has been restored to its constituent parts and has decayed away into other things. The thoughts of this being, this writer, this poet, will last as long as there is another sentient being alive able to comprehend what has been said. I assume this is a finite time, but either way: he will have a far greater influence than Luke Labern ever will. And he is infinitely braver than him.

The person who wrote this is Luke Labern. The person who types the characters or spills ink on the page is Luke Labern – but the thoughts that are translated into writing are someone else’s. And this being has never had a name: for a long time I thought they were the same person. But now that Luke Labern has managed to emancipate his social function from his ideologies as a writer, the two have been dissociated. The writer of the words is Luke Labern. The poet who feels those things, who lives his life as a borderline martyr who is yet to be tested has a different name. So from my writing hence: whenever you see a new, higher layer of honesty, of intensity, of perceptiveness, know that this stems from a bravery that Luke Labern isn’t able to display for a variety of reasons (because of his human ties). Know that it comes from a rejection of anxiety; from a reject of fear, and from a rejection of intimidation of any kind. It arises solely by negating the influence of anyone else in the world but the poet himself.

The writer’s name – the translator’s name — is Luke Labern.

The poet’s name is the Cliché-Killer.

But when I slow down
And accept I’ll never have enough time,
I prioritise  – and the same things
Rise to the surface.
A lot of long term ambitions
Too lofty to name.
But to get there, I have to focus
Not just on the big picture –
I need the tools to get there.

I caught a glimpse
Of the troubles ahead.
Unsettling as they are –
And as certain as the lows to come –
I know the long term is sure
As long as I keep on breathing
(Not that that’s guaranteed.)
I’m at peace with turmoil
As long as there’s reward.

I embrace the pain.
It reminds me I’m alive.
Post-flat line I won’t have worries,
Sentience, ethics, lusts, drives or
Life at all — so I grit my
Teeth and head towards the strife.
If you look carefully, you can even
See a smile.

Rest without work is a pointless endeavour.
Such a waste of life — pure hedonism –
Is rivalled in banality only by boredom.
One is better than the other, but, for me,
Pleasure loses its lustre when it isn’t earned.

Knowing death is coming forces
Us either to ignorance or obsession.
Currently, I do the latter: I pretend
Tonight is my last time in this body;
The last time I can think, the last
Chance I have to appreciate those finest
Beings.
            Everything becomes crystallised.
It’s tattooed on my mind
If not my skin. No motto could
Capture it, but I have a few
Lines which should:
I redefine linguistically muddy waters;
I don’t follow in footsteps, but I trace my heroes’ steps:
I work hard to reduce stress, and I live life without filler.
I am the cliché-killer.

And unhatched success is that dream currency –
By definition, I only display my wealth –
I don’t pretend to have less or more than I have.

I am exactly who I am:

Strong willed, but emotional –
Loyal — but dramatic;
Tenacious but riddled with sensible doubt;
A non-believer and a contradiction –
An antidote to an idealistic affliction.
A man, an animal; reasonable yet addictive –
In control, but addicted.
In love with life, but intrigued by death:
Strong, but with easily-exposed soft-spots.
A true friend to few, a cold shoulder to many –
In love with one person, to an unknown extreme –
A man with a plan, but who leaves it unwritten –
A writer and an artist who doubts he is worthy –
A human being who sees things differently. But above it all
              A personality with proficiency.

Diagnosis: terminally ill from birth.
Prognosis: a writer from the cradle to the hearse.

A lot of words are said,
A lot of rumour spoken
              So here I outline substance
              Not a hearsay surface token.

Success or failure? Superb or unethical?
              A million others I’ll never know:
Despite the difference of opinion
              I think about both insult and compliment.

It might come as a surprise, but
              I’m aware of both my strengths and my short-comings.

Assured confidence is simply my way
              Of promising myself that death will
Equalise us all — so until that time
             I have no reason not to fight.

And live life as if it was under my control.

Long-term immorality is just a weakness.
Violence is the outlet of the unfulfilled,
Just a lack of authenticity — energy
Thrown in the wrong directions.

But though all of this will perish –
You, me, the paper, the words –
Does that steal meaning from the moment…
Or does it make it all there is?

I live like life comes around once
And feed myself on the taste and fuel of dreams.
I know first-hand that to make reality
You have to explore what at first, simply seems.

The love of a lifetime can change your perspective quickly:
I used to say it was a fraud, too sickly
Sweet — but now I know.
              I was wrong.
              It exists.

Cliché-killing is one of my passions. I promise
I wouldn’t use such words
If I didn’t mean them.
I gladly overwrite the past
In writing this.

Certain gaps we leave
In our personalities
Remain exposed and empty
Until we make the memories.

And spontaneity is all-important
But so is date-setting and suspense.
Greatness is akin to patience –
It’s all a matter of waiting.

Have scarred us all, but I marvel at
The tissue, and I remember the wounds:
Caused by my own weaknesses. In short,
All of my problems are my fault.

I never used to blame myself. I called it
‘Philosophical depression’. That it was,
But I simply couldn’t handle the facts.
I ran. I hid. I medicated.

We often do: but now I embrace
My fear. Honestly: I don’t fear death
But I do dear dying. I’ll miss a few certain people
But I won’t miss the lying.

I won’t miss the boredom, but
I will miss the pain. I will forget
The bullshit, but I won’t
Forget your name.

I was young, I was weak;
Life was hard, dark and bleak:
But I’ve grown in my reflection –
I don’t fear life — or death — I respect them.

Silent no longer, let me reveal –
If you give up, or practise pessimism,
You’ve already lost.
                                Life consumes the weak.

They say the ‘stars align’ –
But I don’t believe it.
No God — no Gods — no mysticism.
All we have are the hands we are dealt.

We’re all gamblers — and life is never equal –
But those who win big
Always stake the most.
It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.

No cliché bullshit, ‘high risk/reward’.
No: I stake my whole life on a single spin,
A single number — 21 — and eat, breath, drink and love
The things I do.

If you aren’t passionate, you’re already dead.

So I move: first inside, then out
In parallel parabolas
Moved along by the current
Of mortality.

And pulled in myriad directions
My head is pulled under, and
The rapids disorientate even
The most clear-headed.

Diamond-will and marching
Determination, fortified with
Blazing ambition are
Great assets
                    But even they can’t guarantee
                    A certain path.

All that matters, then, is
Self-belief –
                    Swim or drown.