Curl Away... (10-15-12)

There he is again, that archetype of male that has been living beneath my skin since birth.
That masculine component that I long for like no other, to come in strong, and never let me down.
Why.......... there is no why. There is only, 'eventually...'
A time I am sure of, as there will always be the possibility of inviting him in.
Him and many more prototypes that come in so many shapes and sizes.

I am careful these days, to steer clear from clutter.
To veer sharply against the tide of the next onslaught.
...and that's just it, I never make eye contact long enough to entangle the mind of any- I don't want to.
I am done playing games with boys.
Even when the bastards were ten years older than me, they still held fast to their slingshots.
The muscle in my shell has retreated, to a time of recovery and preparation.
For I know that even within the midst of all the memory of my downfalls, I would yet again,
Choose 'yes'.

In that moment when the Yin to the Yang is matched, I am at a loss for 'why not?'

I have been a sexual philanderer when it came to love, but not of the promiscuous end-
No, in fact quite the opposite. I dove into the cliffs, heart turned outwards, ready for all
I will want that again someday, and I won't shy away when it finds me.
I am immune to barriers of the heart when I roam in that realm with another.
Sanctified in our vulnerability, I want to dig in to all he has and trade him for my own.
I pledge well, and you can be sure, when love finds me again for one last time,
I will be ardently aware of everything, and the flow of my plasma will sing in song and glow-
Inwards, outwards, forwards, backwards, all direction, up, out and inside... reverberation without end.

Until that time, I am cloaked, I have no knowledge of anything concerning who this stranger may be.
I only know that while I steady myself throughout each day that passes, I take comfort in my longing.
I have stored away carefully, all the conditioned excess that lay unattended:
Grieving on days like today. The well has deepened considerably and surely shall continue to do so-
As long as I have it in me to believe, Believe in myself, life, love and understanding.

Nothing is in vain, for though I will myself to curl away from love today,
A steady tomorrow is on the rise.

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-
Nothing.
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:
Ungrateful.

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.

Army of One.

Permanence

It came. 

Here I am, the lone entity-

I had so longed for. 

Stripped. Severed. Derelict.

Still.

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

Shrugged...

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.

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.......................