Tuesday, February 16, 2016


Obliterate. The morning has offered truckloads of unnerving thoughts
I sense my rest the night prior was compromised by dreams worth forgetting
Some ships need sinking, and others demand to reject rescue, no matter how good the will.
I need warming next to kind fires that stoke themselves with well-intentioned ease
This day finds me smothered in thick restlessness of the mundane variety
I fall short of triggers to set me free and trip into the clean waters of optimism
Instead, I stop, consider the source of greyness, and come close to choking on the lack of answers.

This Tuesday feels like a Monday, imbued in the responsibility of monotonous routine
Only the layer of strata that remains snug to my skin is rummaging through my nerves.
Muffled voices mention nothing that needs bothering with, and yet I seek to bother.

Muffled, muffled is a good word for all I am contemplating.
The actions I take at this moment in time are evasive in their direction
Ambiguous connotations flutter by as though I have the time to dissect bullshit
I am training this cortex to waste less time on broken windows
Protecting the mind is of paramount importance, against the onslaught of idle hands;
Hands made idle through the disingenuous ramble of superficial squawking.

Some part of me is gaining momentum, the morning wanders indirectly
Prominent thoughts circle-in closer, hoping to latch onto one constructive iota of meaning.
Fuck this blatant misuse of time and belligerent waste: opportunity cost is seizing
Making a mutant out of muscles that move as though they were watered by morphine.
The ugly banter of half-past ten a.m. is souring my tongue as I deviate - anywhere.
These manifestations of another's inconsolable black-mapping have dug into me- good
I now duck lower and see the obvious antagonist, pawned off, post-dusk, stale and ugly
The night prior has fucked my wits and hog-tied them until further notice.

...and just like that, the aura about me slips into a coma...
As the mood of another finagles its way into my foggy psyche.
Slipping into any willing membrane with his own restless energy
Diving under aged motivation and descending (I hope) until he 'bottoms out'.
Chuckling in this new moment, as the royal upheaval from one coat of skin into another
Leads me into a kinder, albeit restless, agenda... of the melancholy lovesong that skin issues forth.

I am good, good in this disposition that I have habitually known and (somewhat) understood.
So many keys I have earned and locks that remain locked until I shake off my own weighty doubt.
My mind is everywhere and nowhere and wanting to get worked until sweat turns me dry

It is hard to ignore young muscle on the prowl, the prowess of which oozes thickly in my face.
It's best to let my own sleeping dog lie, lie on cold concrete and lie to my face
Because the last thing I need is another can o' worms,
Consuming my system just because 'it feels good'.

But O motherfucker, can the mind run wild.

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