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.

"...that I am."

It is, it is this thing
This 'defiant towards labeling' organism
This Aura of Mine.
This drips in slowly
As though a warm needle were gently pushing through
A landscape made of wax, with a pulse
Welcome, initially, thus the escalation of "Mercury Rising..."
It's novel to me, this funny little unspoken curse
And a curse it is- if I am to remain honest,
And I am. I am.
But a fool to none-the-wiser in claiming that a 'curse' does not become me
Wired for this- this discrimination
Wired to untangle in perpetuity, this attempt at understanding.
But too true, the inherent understatement that 'yes'
...there is something more here than understanding...
The need to Master the facts is cumulative- continual
It is there that I return, suspended in my thirst to define
Locked in a limbo I love.
Questioning everything in silence
This Abyss of intrigue, where the quiet crowns my efforts.
You see, I am stuck in the transition
Not for any other noble reason than 'being'
I am flush here, in the flux of all things unanswered
And it's more sane that they remain this way
Privacy- Adored.
The multitasking of emotional discord is my calling
For I am most familiar here, in the dark foreboding,
...of all that I may, 'suppose'.
Unanswered questions gain in value, their intricacies float nearby
That visual/cerebral liaison has been made affluent in its seclusion
I am making love to concepts daily, even when they pain me
Deep down, I am carnivorously aware of my own aptitude
And I fucking love the Beast that lives here
In this hired flesh, born to do the bidding of this soul
This soul who understood the inequity of the human spirit first,
And then made to love- post trauma.
In satisfaction, I own my conflicted complexities,
Own them to perfection.

Rhetoric, Expanding...

Tongue is tied
Riddle, unsolved.
Rhetoric, expanding.
Yes, so what if I understand
The lessening never appears.
Yes, so what if deep down, it's unfounded?
The patina of piss left behind is unchanged
I can roll these fingers relentlessly
Within the continued bark of this bite
What good has it, will it, can it- done/do me?
I am cloistered in my irrelevance
Darkened permanently from the stigma of elsewhere
Deficiencies grown from emotional rot,
Leaked near me, and I became host to the despair of another.
But, too true, how often can coincidence suffice?
Think not of the lesser, life discriminates EVERYWHERE
You need only possess the capacity to be infected by it-
To buy into its greed.

I am ugly- personified
 I beat into every layer of sensitivity
Pummeled from all angles, inside and out.
Therapy for these contusions roams aloft
On a smooth sea of unrealistic ideals.
This is why and where, the muse gains ground
In this immaterial plane, safety exudes
In a place where potential floats
Freely...
Awakened to every unnatural bend and contortion
Here- I am perfect,
In all the certainty of my faults
I wiggle away from shady concealment
Warmed in my naked, unworried release
Laughter and the splatter of bullshit both cease to exist
The ache of confinement eases immediately free
I take control of nothing, as the rules of nothing surround me.

This imaginary world where the language is inaudible
I grow ever-loved and admired.
I reflect only acceptance from every exit wound I bare
I am oozing with confidant love
In this place, on any given day
I am gifted by unnatural belief, that hidden deeply within
That soul that dares to see
Can look with open eyes,
At all the experience my pain has afforded me-
And continue in quiet haste, cradling my Being.

Bubble of Conflict

Wrapped in plastic
This History has become, celophane.
Indeed awareness is useful
But what, pray tell, is the answer?
Awareness rids me of nothing
I am merely made all the more defunct
In the aftermath of acknowledgement.
Heat to melt?
But there is no logic there-in
Melted and boiling would then fuse to my skin
More discomfort, molting in, instead of away.
Meanwhile, this pondering is nearing uselessness.
I suffocate under the admonission that more contemplation brings
This is not imagined; I lived these slimy, uncontrollable que's
What 'pawning off' of insecurities made this transference- legal?
For someone has been offended here, in this stark & brightly lit confinement.

Continually fucked by the passing off of inadequacy that was not my own
This is a grave business, discerning who's at fault,
And yet, what gain in more assignment?
Will the toxic wafting odor of blame, rescind this banishment from kindness?

So self-aware, and selfless
This is madness to define
But if I don't-
Only further offending.
Why do I continually give a shit to blur these borders
With logic, sense, understanding, or intelligence?
Truth is,
Life is fucked when the meddling we loathe
Whether administered once or forever
Originates from those that our blood demands we trust.

Out

The sound of morning is resting
I look up above the awkward bright light
Issued from this source of whining attention seeking screen & keyboard.
I test the actions of the night prior,
Have they benefited me in any way?
Yes, there was a thought,
Lent to another in the hope of restoring his own roaming soul
Back into his focus.
But it has also awakened what I know to be my own greatest weakness.
I need to suck the fucked sadness out of my skin
And spit it out for the last time.
I need to do this-
Today.
Now.

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.

Gone?

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...