Monday, December 29, 2014

11-5; 11-5

Two months progress betwixt the Skewer and Army of One
Where have I been, and in the long-run
What had I done?
There is naught to be told of days that brought nothing more
Than the same of so many moons passed.
Feelings to surge and overwhelm
To bring to the brink of more nothing-
To reach for and let go of-
Time has diligently laid down its life
Yet no markers to indicate abnormalities have arisen.

I look back into sixty-some days previous and see fog
Useless greyed mist to blur the degeneracy of 2 more months of idle
Most days' purpose are bathed in familial bliss
Colluding with the contaminant of 'complaint' seems bratty:

Porous limbs never cease in their duty
But to ramble on too, to their silent cravings
Seems fucking irritating and degenerate, in and of itself.
Maddening these limbs to alternative actions are a conclusion- preferred.
To take this mewling skin's misery up the mountain
And beat it into submission- Yes. Yes.
Now, I feel I can get somewhere.
To sweat out the impurity of 'need' is an addictive contemplation
To leave arduous yearning on the dusted path of rocks quickly passed-
Yes. Yes, an innuendo is forming.
Comprehension- lifted.

Trip to trip-out and overwhelm secret creatures
That dwell in the casement of all that lie open to any ensnared
Yes, try as I might, to underwhelm and emit contentment
The boiling excess of everything untasted burns the muted confessional.
Fuck the longing, fuck it into oblivion.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Army of One.

It came. 
Here I am, the lone entity-
I had so longed for. 
Stripped. Severed. Derelict.


Blame is a skewer, long and perfect
Precision is its only partner;
Thorough, effective.
A heart - staked and still pumping

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Wrung with enough torque to tear into tendons
Taught taken far into the danger of implosion
Skin, gone greyer than the hide of petrified preservation

Skin is useless
Nothing more than an untrained atom
Threatening explosion
Running off the impudent whim of immaturity.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Lovesong of the Detached

("And if that is how it is...")

How to pry oneself away from these lyrics
Acting like substitutions that wish to 'put it mildly'
To seek and destroy the destroyed,
To tear the drought of the drought in two
To liberate the limbo of limbo
And fuck off the fucked fuck's that led me here.

("Under your cover of blue......")

The drive past midnight was my party
Alone and pounding out the quiet with decibels that attacked me
Night won, with her musky cigarettes and skin therapy
The blunt tomahawk was all the metaphor I needed,
To get the fuck away from there...
As incontinence broke free from another's domain.

("Do you give much-")
("Do you take more-")
("Do you know what's good...?")

Yes and no and all too well.
Give until the slate runs clean
Taking in enough days of without, in the hope that 'yearning' retires.
What a useless possession, clutching vacancies drawn up from the deep well
What is good is all relative and in that revelation, it is good to go down...

Down to the warm grove, below the fruit tree,
Where braided hair loosened itself, ("...and we lay, nocturnal...")
Amidst the trust of shy smiles and freckled flesh...
Down to that layer of enigma, where energies mix and consume ("...speculate what we feel...")
And vomit up, that last bite of Adam's apple.

("...move with confidence...")

Into the hate that sun-bleached meat abhors
Vital organs have sloughed off sincerity
Only the salted sea grants reprieve to these weightless bones
As the aging sun dies behind the horizon
I crave rain to accompany my soaking, dilapidated memories
Festering in the blistering nothingness of dismissal.

("I could go wild and free, but God forbid that you might envy me...")

Irascible erogenous zones would have me stoned had they possession of this cockpit I control
Philosophers, beware, you do not have within your prowess,
The answer to voids that double daily, the farther they walk
(, seagull fly................) Away from me.
I've traveled too far to detour into complacency, yet the urge to 'fuck it' ensnares.

("Under your cover of blue...")

The truth is, I'm covered in sepia, burnt umber, parchment white and black
Trapped bristles in the pigment hang tight, seeking permanence
I promise nothing. ("...what I've done (s) not enough to hope you oughtta here...")
At best, I can entertain the idea of delirium reached, when left in a dark room of hinted undertones
Where, into the hands of another, I can lay my reins.

("Under your cover of blue....................")

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

'The Fault in the Keys'

The rain dance within the daydream is not entirely imagined
Rather, remembered. Significance in meaning, warm shower descending.

Elbows propped on knees, hands capped at the bend
What ideas are fumbling through, in a mind that keeps more to itself than it speaks
Walking through days with scuffed up knees, I am sharing less
And shouting more.

Detachment evolving on a regular basis
The stipend paid is costly, minutes in the distance
I know, are slowly forming hours that will sink away time
Quietly eradicating longevity.

And the guardrail grows ever-stronger.

I am smelling the energy of articulated limbs through plastic;
Even if I licked the wrapper of assumption
With intent to suck and savor its 'made to love' contents
I am still tasting nothing but what little memories afford

History 108: here, ignorance is bumbling about in the dark
Immigrants know more than the half-stuck mind of entitlement
Where here, a man belts facts out that rustle my eardrums.
 While the rest of us wonder, "Are we all trapped in this cycle of spin"?

The abstraction of the morning leaves my coffee covered tongue trapped
Dicking around in an alley of indecision
With painted nails and layered hair
My 41 year old body asks, "When............"?

And POOF! Just like that, the warm shower descending turns to ice
To curb the sweat that coats the untouched skin.

This muggy Tuesday morning is laboring
From sleep that didn't come soundly,
The makings for discrimination assemble themselves
Looking to crack the resilience
Of a mind bent on virtue.

The fault in the keys is a likely story
So again, I turn to my preferences
And pour the abstraction of my nonsense
Onto paper and its pristine privacy.......................

Friday, September 5, 2014


The pause, stretched beyond recognition
Stretched to record volumes
Of nothing, into a ledger made of nil.
The same words circle over me
Like vultures, nervously drooling over flesh that rots under the heat of day-

I am- unused
Stacked in the stale, unshared air of my personal space
Plodding along, dedicated, demonstrative in my abuse
To only one set of eyes; my own.
Peering into this fucking void of a woman
Widening in the madness of time-inconsequential.

Here I am again, world, unused.
Looking to diffuse a little frustration through words:
Soundless letters that form a rock-solid nothingness
Belted to my waist.
Uneaten, unused...
Waste, infinitude.

Monday, July 14, 2014


Wrapped and rolling around in this cottony mess
In an eiderdown that scratches me, like the bony finger of an old maid.
"Double the occupancy, dear child, if you wish to get anywhere..."
The mold is molding, the stale; decayed decay
Rotting piles of flaked skin have been gathering in room corners,
Whispering to one another of their disdain;
"She let us go without even so much as a tickle"
Of the rounded, warm thumb of another...

What is left to be said, when the silence burns brain cells?
Awareness crawls over every square inch of human 'being'.
I'm pissed to know its private thoughts, bitching me out as if I have a choice.
Love is not worn for one night, and filed away into a folder of 'thereafter'
Love has standards that defy explanation, that seek to be met and exceeded.
Even in pretending they do not exist, that conscience of mine will fry me
Scarring that decay that rots on, in its soul mate-less state.

Friday, June 27, 2014

Shut It.

Who edits raw candor with a straight face?
What scholarly program dictates degrees
That allow for elaboration on the intimacy of reflection?
Grammatical error can fuck itself sideways,
Impulsive confession is bold and should hold all acclaim.
It is ignorance to think that editors need exist in the world of intellect.
Ingestion can be the only examination- held
Honored in the integrity of trust without options.
But are there enough learned minds that leave the scroll on the floor where it fell
Opting for the heart and its innate sense of 'being', to temper nothing but the will to rest when weary?
Adhering to the gentle bubble of the unexplained, surface tension breaks for the beauty in that fluidity
Yet how many recognize and encourage the depth of shared perfection,
Leaving behind all manner of recognition and peripheral distraction?

None, in so far as I have sensed.
And even I, in my convoluted state, lack the sense of such statements;
For if I seek that which seems to be left uncovered,
Am I not the very banal cretin that I myself dread?

For now, I lay 'understanding' on the floor, and walk away quietly
Whispering of forgiveness with every barefooted inch that expands...

Pattern, destroyed.

Terse, spread. Congeal.
Parched, cracked- unforgiven.
Knowledge, nonsense
Right and wrong- blurred.

Tension, snapped. Wrecked.
Burgeoning, blooming- spent.
Selfish, succumbed
Flexing at the hip- nothing.

Disjointed, insanity. Spoiled.
Cocky ambivalence exudes
Fuck the pattern, swerving
Hit everything until it breaks.

This is a Post-Modern
Boisterous and yet hushed.
Playing with 'suppose'...

Foreplay rots in my mind
Aged in conceptual platitudes
Forth & Back, Back & Forth
Marching sideways to nowhere

A lake, a farm, a midnight clear
Spontaneous ramblings appear
Ejaculation of a promise
Disappearing in the 'yes but no'

I've come.
Void- widening.
Textual perversion, exploited.

The night knows of secrets
That lie as they lie in wait.
Tossing and turning into,
Cul-de-sac's of waste.

Gas-less fumes expand
Carbon exudes from lungs that contract
In an ode to joy that perspires,
From probation that longs for closure.

In so many ways and on so many days
The hunt for protection from delusion dips further
Canyons of claims, and chasms of chains
Chink against bruised thighs that lack fusion.

Milk drips from a tap made of flesh
Lips purse in angered revulsion
Bivouac anywhere, just to get this 'fuck' on.
But the courage of a soldier kicks dirt into such thoughts

Knowing full well that the lingering doubt behind the reasons to pause
Will screech louder than all detonated bombs in existence.
And the rotted cake with its rancid cream
Will linger longer in the belly of regret.

So which the greater demon to suffice?
Who knows, in this world of symmetry
Dug into the prosperity of those that came to be
As a result of the love spent in worry-free youth.

Famine of the Heart

Yesterday, cries like an unfed infant
Consolation of overlapping hunger lies
Invisible in its non-existence.
Healthy leaves, manicured in care
Grow in love but a mere foot away
But a plant on the table, no-less
Can steer ache from the growling of this core.

Energy, poured everywhere.
And everywhere too, there is mess
I am unkempt in my administration of the 'just'
Regret is a rust stain, too far from the tongue
For I am yet not ready to taste of its poison.
I lick, instead, the barbarous (lie) promise, of 'soon'.
But not enough pound-for-pound evaporation has occurred
To illuminate, "yes".

Pervigilium swallowed the most recent bouts
Legions of erupted negligence, oozing out of dry pores
A leper in heat may know this iron stake
Jabbed in heretic-like nonsense
Caving in to nothing, but the arduous task of defeat
The mania of the moment slips menacingly away
As exhaustion surrenders to the border-less dark.

My heart is an unshaven prick,
Souring in the sediment of untouched beggary
Vagrant whispers pissed away all the love-songs
Written last month, once the cycle resumed.
My center of gravity, is a Madman's menagerie
Overgrown, wild, uncivilized, in revolt of the rest
Of this instinctual lawlessness.

Greed, replaced with heavy-bodied nothingness
This is the sentence of unplanned impulse
Those hands that once clasped in erotic delirium
Grow bony and cold, on this island of 'One'.
I gave the lead away to a beast reigned by senses
Who now, mopes in turbulent isolation
Happy to have passed on alleles before the severance.

But- happy enough?

Raw, from the throat down,
And God forbid anyone detour into that chasm that drowns in forced solitude
The sanity of man becomes easily destroyed from one sip
Drunk enough to consider nothing
But the appetite grown from the taste of something infinite

And even now, in this early morning hour-
Post coffee covered tongue,
Reprieve settles softly about the shoulders that tensed in composition
The quiet comprehension lives on...
A plain, somewhere high on an uncharted sierra
The meaning of restraint hangs high
Handed down in time,
When my isolation shifts tenderly
Into understanding.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

The Heat of Unwelcome Thoughts.

The veneer is decades thick
I am unaware of its exact origin
Sufficed to say that its inception was early,
Far too early for me to have known any better.
The events of life ensured layer upon layer of graduated tension
Would only grow in the decades to follow.

What does it mean to sit bewildered by my own lack of definition?
Does it only caution me further, into dark halls that wag a deafening warning?
In rubbing elbows with indifference, I am granted reprieve of my own criticisms.
In keeping the mandatory company of assholes, I chip away this bark more effectively
In acknowledging my own fleeting insecurities, weakness seeps out- to my own detriment.
Bumbling about in more darkness bodes the sickly skin of indecision, for purpose- renewed.

Writing in riddle echoes these carnivorous musings
Shedding skin this thick can surely, only come, with reincarnation.
But that is the folly of this negative beast
Draped around and throughout, my attractive potential.
Stuck in everything again; mud, loss, punishment.
Saving not a trace of what might relax and soften the mind.

Who am I?
Away from this grimy, self-loathing?
This wormhole of decayed resentment?
The way my condition has sliced itself in two;
Equal parts: water-tight/misshapen.
Never was there ever a judge so unfailing, as the way I bite my own back.

Even now, each line holds a war crime
A story sans elaboration, a legend-less map portraying unmarked defeat.
I'm calling out for more 'nothing'
In the hope that eventually, I will evoke an echo- returned
Gifting insight that exists nowhere
Beyond the intrepid tripping up of my own two feet.

Upon completion or four 'sixteen week' sets,
I'm traveling higher.
The hubbub of tactful, complimentary beings remains critically hushed
I'm expecting the downward spiral to unravel
Abbreviating any earned credit with compulsory criticism.
These quiet morning moments stretch ahead several years... as the high of my own dissent, dissipates.

When I'm sixty and the regret of unspent energy has long since left me
I'll be earning kinder lines that grace this face.
Hoping to console myself completely
Through the knowledge that all I've been doing in the name of preservation
Has been enough to evade regret and bitterness
Relying on memories made in times long gone.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014


His outline keeps me awake in the dark.
The cubic space surrounding me
Bows under the psi, growing from unspent torque.
Toss, turn, consumed by neglect
Sailing through a cotton sea

O slick, ship's wheel
Grasp and twist with confidence
Navigate needs that bemoan the heavy night
Place weight where this mind struggles to capture
A ballad to croon.
I am warping under this long-echoing sigh

Bitten, stretched, torn
Night deflecting strain, powerless
This sheep-less mood screams, a foot above the bunk I labor
Cold steel continually meeting that wet grove- alone.
I'd trade a thousand known moons
For a sliver-less sink, to drop in slowly,
And erase this lonesome patina

Ensnares the strong and belts them in
For a praiseworthy ride, riddled with loss.

The trade here is eager, desired
But lonely and fucked, nonetheless.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Encrypted, Encased, Engraved...

Vociferous agony floats
Poking at limbs
Encrypted in Patience.
Slow motion slices through
Tension that slips, omniscient

Time holds the memory
Hidden delicately away,
Encased in iron and boneless intention.
Engraved with purpose, conviction
A Lingum of the Ages.

I am hungry.
Weakened not,  from coital loss
With a trigger finger of greatest strength
Aligned with enough Pause...
To last a fuckin' Lifetime.


Flesh grows tired of morality's conflict.

Digging into hindquarters that sit idle-
Flexed and frustrated.

Soon, yes soon, soon what?

More waiting?

Perhaps an application
A vacancy filled...


Doubt is more a statement than a question.

Doubt harboring daily for the reasons to hold fast.

I am stuck fast where I need to be,
Steering away from hysteria
Of the like that is sure to disorient

Disorient and rob me of decency.
Such a proclamation
To point the well-articulated finger at my weakness.
The petulant accused is bored stiff
Tiring in this limbo of self-imposed loss.

The diet from man is thinned beyond recognition
To stand shoulder to shoulder would singe my knee-caps

Slander my nape...

Ravage my heels...


Enough for tonight,
Sleep comes not softly and that 3am gavel
Bangs relentlessly.


Thursday, February 27, 2014


Shards litter the morning
Victory bubbles in irrefutable belligerence
What win is this, that seethes in vicious malice?
As moisture leaks from reddened pores,
My countenance slows for nothing
The adaptation here is of loathsome envy.

Fuck the donor that weakened one night
His own impending darkness, the victor of fear.
Bumbling about in the blackened ambiance
Hidden red-hot borders burn, once shoulders and elbows relax.
This is madness, this door of impugned warning
Stay out- Stay out! A new sign must bear post.

I abhor this waste, the human element here is mute
Strangled by the sheer stupidity of an unknown soul
There can be no pattern forming here
Of benign indifference.
Serial numbers of warfare, discharging in thought
I grasp the tightened wind-pipe
Cinching one last puff of anger to dust;
This putrid oxygen is immutable.

And so in haste, I turn my back on the uncontrollable
Bowed in conscience for all I purged
Misdirected in my haste for answers.

There is a vein pumping somewhere,
Clean and healthy, aware of all the wrong that couldn't be helped.

And like an oil-stained miner that has been taken over by greed
I too, disengage my empathy
Galloping instead, after logic that has been starved by desperation
And the hell-bent need to wring-free of recent histories.
I am chasing a foundation that anchors in, belly-deep,
To bedrock born of virtuous champions.

To triumph in a time like now would rob me of more sensitivity,
I am torn between the care and the canker.
At 41, challenge only grows;
Like a steam-ridden locomotive, driven towards hell.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Can't; Won't

Can I take that wounded offering
Into the warmest fold of my coat
And set it at ease with full care?

I can.

Can I slip a palm onto the tension that crawls
Weaving in and around all this stifling air?

I will.

There is a broken heart, kneeling
Heavy and filled with regret
Longing for that last effort to rewind

I can't; it won't.

Vibrating guitar strings bury their ache into my ears
I become immune to the wish to stay away from such sorrow
I instead want to be near;
Close enough to hold the hand of such pain
And alleviate the burn of loss in random, semi-permeable moments.

Dark, tousled, strained
I am the landing for such torment
And why is that...........

I am understood in the affliction I recognize
Drawn to burden and the wish to soften;
I am backwards in my need to repair.

Heavy healing is looking outright
Introspection still seeks to heal the loss of another

I am handicap in my directives

Focusing less on the inner toil and leaning more on the ease of other ships

Where was this affinity born?
Surely not through want of ignorance
Perhaps on a day late in May
When language was just a muffle bouncing off space
Did my afternoon pattern experience a blip

And from that moment on, seeking solace for others
Became the inward desire that my life would choose to placate.

In any case
Musing on dialectical happenstance is tiresome,
Yet miles from boring.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

M. R. B. Jr.

The thump in my chest is heavy, buried under the weight of disease.
I am choking on the worries of a benign life, super-imposed.
Or is it?
Perception, malevolent in nature
The pressure of platelets pumping heavily is fucking with my thoughts.
What is it that I have inadvertently inhaled that now wishes to drive my thoughts-
I've swum in muck before and so again, I must learn to slice through the dingy water
Cupping nothing to drink and only oxygen, to flush away this bloated stagnancy.
There is a turning point here;
A rough and unfamiliar course that deviates and yet longs to tangle me downward
Another test for the road, I suppose
To coddle my morals and seek relapse into another ocean;
Consumed by waves that lap a choking reflex

I kick, and kick away to move forward
Forward and into a more curvaceous exploration

A bucking of what wants to be addressed, and yet, for here and all the days after-
Has only earned the right to be recalled in disgust.
I can't loom about in memories that have me hog-tied with a vengeance for things of a rotting nature.

Yet to dream without a compass, into a slumber that swims into subconscious longing
What torture defines me in the waking hours to follow...
He's there again, indifferent and without the gentility needed
To reverse the suppressed memories of those that climbed about
Laughing, tickling, needing his care.

What destroys a man that never breaks?
A man, who, taking pride in an ego built upon regret
Lives on in squandered loss
Blindness? Apathy? Giving a fuck, for the fuck's sake of saying so..?
There is cruelty afoot, banging about in cantankerous victory.
Folding into the blackness of not belonging.

We are a headless corpse, and the body we built lies dying
Dying that never ceases, and for what?
To continually echo of all we did wrong, despite of the right?

I am left here, baking in the sun without protection of any kind
Shielding only those that did nothing to bring on this ravaging abandonment.

The mountain is tall, so tall and often without end in sight
But I continue to climb, even on days where the foothold slips,
And I find myself thrown miles back, onto ground already traveled
Soon, I will earn the reasons and secrets for why the return of tomorrow
Will block any renegotiation's.

I build a new nest,
Strong and with heavy reinforcements.
But light enough to fly to new lands, where four hearts can bathe in cleanest waters
Rinsed free of any backwards memories that will serve to tack them down in insecurity-
Insecurities that have earned no right to be clutched by hands without responsibility

The severing of such heavy memory is one bastard of a case
Rising to the challenge was always my forte
So, in one solid and stoic ejaculation,
I ask these blatant scabs to peel free for the last time
Removing themselves from the delicate balance of all I attend.

My wish is to be successful and without waste
As 41 delivers another year of deepening respect and worship
I pick up my load as I always do, in renewed faith and understanding;
That no matter what memories may surface and scar
I take the blow with accuracy and maturity
And not flail about in wasted tears, for a man who lost his sight.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Porn for the Ears....

The eardrum is a G-spot.
Bouncing sound straight to the heart and with only one intention:
A one-way ticket between the legs.
I am a driven disciple. I earn all the fervent reward,
Listening still, when even the dam threatened 'Break'.
I pour and pour until the swell begs collapse
It is all I know, to partner up to the rush of such echo.

Shoulder blades remain outwardly stoic
But inside, inside the tendons swim and ejaculate
Slow tension articulating to the orchestration of memory,
When salt of another's pores rained into my own.
I recall quite fondly, the swallowing of such energy.
The cascading venue of my bedroom,
Burned hot the memories of Love, unfolding.

This new sound that punctures my stillness
That fucks with my self-control
Has banged that door wide open, blasting the wood straight off its hinges
Demanding to remember the thrill of naked games.
When love was wet with each stroke and bent on enthusiasm...
These chords, once struck, vibrate long and without regret
Hitting notes within me that have long been held captive by the tightening of remorse.

This reverberating echo is changing me
Craving me... Masking the sharp edges of resolve, and
Quietly inundating me with longing that won't lie still.
My head is wrapped around my legs as my heart begs for a reason
And all the while, the lover in me lies dying
Unafraid of what may come as the result of another palm-to-palm encounter.

But virtue is my judge, and given all presiding factors-
Sees no benefit in venturing further.
The gavel bangs only in continual memory.
And though this composer bellows in daily-
Making love to my heart and mind-
The box still sits quietly, wrapped tight
Adhering to the intention of necessity.