There are no names for the cocktails

Keeping up appearances

In this heart of flesh;

Fine balances I can’t

Squarely define.

I can’t, you see…

There are no names.

What’s that feel

When you lie sleepless

Ready to break down and weep

Yet serenaded by a sweet presence

Wrapping itself around you


Faithfully abiding…?

That junction of perseverance

Where you squirm with an itch

At your soles, nudging you

To take off running

Far, far from where purpose

Has you…

What do we call that?

The fear that surges right

After that bold step –

The shakiness interspersed

With brief moments of steadiness

The see-saw faith taking a minute’s pause

Would you tell me, please?

What’s an almost-minor key?

The last breath before you keel over in rage?

That one persistent itch that’s nowhere in particular?

The kind of love you feel for that one you so easily hurt?

What is goodbye not spoken?

Chills in a sauna?

An imaginary pill stuck in your throat?

A delayed thought irritating you like a teasing sneeze?

What do I call this?

There are no names.


5 thoughts on “Errr…

  1. First of all, this reminds me of certain complaints the persona in Jeffrey Eugenides’ book, Middlesex, makes. S/he wants names for things like the terror that makes you afraid to look into mirrors when you’re aging, the anxiety of the insecurity of your business in your middle age, et cetera. Because s/he cannot find words for these, s/he resorts to phrases. I use this pronoun because the persona is a hermaphrodite, and at one point, they are female, and at another, male.

    I feel like there is a connotation in the word “cocktail”. The party, or the drink? And if a drink, what kind of drink?

    The one where you’re ready to cry, but a presence is felt that doesn’t allow the tears to flow, I was there recently. This very weekend, in fact.

    You’re right, in all these cases, you know. There are no names for some of the things that we feel. Perhaps that is why we become novelists. We can’t describe what goes on within us in single words, and so we must use pages, and pages, and pages to tell other people things that, perhaps with an alternate language, we could have done in seconds.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. I have to read Middlesex as soon as I can, this is the second time you’ve mentioned it, and now I’m more curious.

      There is, actually. Whenever I refer to my emotions as a cocktail, in my mind, i’m referring to a Bloody Mary in all it’s complexity. Bloody Mary – almost unbelievable.

      Someone asked me why I want names for all these things? what would it achieve? What you say is interesting. Maybe, not many people care. The few of us who do end up writing pages and pages…we become novelists. I don’t know why I find that so comforting.

      But then the part about an alternate language. What if there is? And we know it? But being surrounded by so many people who won’t get it, we subconsciously do not reach into ourselves for them and so we make do with what is available by spinning enough of them to communicate our thoughts and emotions(?)

      I remember a book I read about communication in heaven – communication without words – with words, yes, but not the way we know it, communication without utterance, if I should put it that way. like a seamless power line of transmission, everything is done uniformly, with order. A glance gets its said and understood.

      I am thinking too much.

      Liked by 1 person

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