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
(...fly, 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....................")

'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.......................

Unused.

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-
Uneaten.

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.

"Quotes"

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.

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
Mind-fuck.
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.
Without.
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.