Sunday, July 21, 2013

Warm Sand.

Bury my feet into warm sand
Warm, inviting, squeezed.
Sunshine felt even in the overcast saloon of my mind
But why slice open and issue nothingness?
When the assumptions to be had work less in reverse-
And more into open.
Widen again this crevice, reveal an interior cortex, that
Lives in opulent boredom. A cerebral whiz
Waiting on the dumbfounded muscles of a doubting tom.
Foolish, fucked tom-foolery.
Noiseless and yet, so fucking loud.
Wiggling toes now find warm sand inviting,
Creating more down for the cortex to unwind
Relaxing as it undulates in perfect misconception.
I am wallowing in my wanderlust, feeling the evasion of time
And the punctured illusion of practicality.

I love and love and love so much. Too much. Not nearly fucking enough.
This skin is moaning with a conscience,
That despite all the proper notions and responsible alignment,
Finds madness looming in virtue.
Kantian ethics engrave a plaque that can, and eventually will
Hang in hell for the lost reprieve of ugly Golden Years.
Truth is, I know, I know, I know, I already know.
And yet, I make the same decisions, as the beast of other paths
Would create much worse.
Much worse a tomorrow than any mislead trade of today.
There will be a wonder, a backtracking orbit when the last dark hair gives in
And a gentle sigh for the path taken that led to cleaner slate.
Continue, continue, continue, the reward beaming out is far greater
Than all supposed woes that will greet me when the grey takes permanent root.

But I will still know sorrow, and the rancid odor of decayed lust.
I will still backpack into yesterdays when self-loathing kept the wolves away
Pheromones snuffed and swallowed in return for a memory of loathsome stagnancy.
In a time where matters are taken into my own hands
I push the svelte bitch that dared too much many thousands of hours ago
Push away and punched, her perpetual willingness to yet rise is unfailing
For now......................
Until 50, 55, 60. It is unknown, when the time will come and safely I can venture
Away from despondency and into companionship.
The richness of full-throttle maturity is indeed an emotionally lucrative prospect
But the dying skin that begs forgiveness yet writhes.
In agony, agony, in agonizing defeat.
Begging for a morsel of acknowledgment,
That somewhere on this incline to independence
There will be a detour into sexual hysteria once more
That land of Milk & Honey, oozing with Moan & Bone.
Earning more memories of the greatness of a good fuck
Adorned in every pliable decorum that the skin has to offer.

I am kidding nothing.
I am aware of all angles.
I boast of the high road, where lanterns never die out
As the intention of the 'best choices' wrangle free of wind that can diminish their light.
But too well I know the difference, between a wholesome goodbye and indifference.
And while I remain indifferent to the body's song 'for now'
I am ever-vigilant and dedicated beyond all fucking reasoning
To notice the tides of change.
Somewhere roaming in that hall of all my drive and ambition
Roams too, the decadent flow of unspent touch
Walking tall with all my 'best intentions' fastened tightly
The courageous heart will find a way,
To notice when time is of the essence.
And eventually, in no uncertain terms, pores will open and flush
Out and away all this body-wracking tension
Singing far into the night and its indigo wind, the sound of lovers voices
Made whole in their co-joined madness.

Until that time,
The smell of smoke, sweat and evaporating spirits
Penetrate a palette that delves deeper into its consistency
Laboring in the languor that lingers.

Monday, July 1, 2013


The accumulation of waste is evident only to me
Stilled by my own blackness, waste, it is as I mentioned
Waste. Heavy. Burdened. Fucked.
The lighthouse in the woods is diminished...


I am estranged
...from myself.
The generalization has found me
A statistic of one, in a sea of too many.
I have to get dirty here
To shake the disease once and for all.
To be found in this mosh pit of filth
I am sickened beyond description-
A dialogue I swore I'd never adopt.


The day has slated me
I am deaf about the ears, again
To any reason that may float nearby.
No metaphor for cause
No drastic queue to prompt
Nothing but the numb
To bruise bruises that have grown stale
Ages and ages ago...
When the day was blue and floating,
Unlike the now, green with envy.

Fornication of inanimate objects
In its senseless adverbial prison
Seems a likelier conclusion
To this yesterday that I bid adieu.
'Yesterday', I speak of it as though it has passed
Not, in all the welcome of tomorrow is that coming
Thursday, twice past holds no greater value than my now.
The crutch of this pause holds me fast
I am revolting in lurid form, yet without gain.

What then, I ask, is this questionable attitude forming?
Why, when the rotted expiration has come and gone and still
De-oxygenated flesh moves on, as if to harbor hope
Hope in longing.

Hope in longing, yes.
It is there that I roam; soft, warm, still breathing
Half-moon eyelids at rest, as another imaginary pulse lingers.
Who knew the flavor of waste would become so addictive?
The bane of existence has been clutched close
To an untouched breast that lays in dormant haste-
Or waste.
The distinction in today is futile
For the knowledge of tomorrow is had;
I am still miles away from that awakening
When senses long dulled by the heroin of loneliness,
Drink again from a cup; a cup strong, potent, worthy.

Crooked are these assumptions, to push forward in virtuous haste
Relying on a tomorrow that can never guarantee
Absolution from the stinging cause of going without.
There is reticence everywhere
Swimming in the deep water of all my refluent thought.