Murmuring...

Bubble of ice, or air.
Or lack of air- which is it?
Clouded in cluster-fucked conditions.
Windpipe cinching, motivated by the divide
Of reveries motioning just beyond reach.
That teenage reclusiveness
How the fuck did it ever climb back in?
And burden the wise limbs into submission...?

The savage plastic coating fits good.
Promoting the prognostication of rancid days yet to come.
More unfed love; more unfed limbs; more
Bleak; dismal; eradicating; cock-less nights.
The echoes of male murmuring,
Wriggling in between muscled impermanence
Controls my vacuous, disconcerted attention span.
Distracted, to the nines, the need for deep rubbing.

Elegy

The smell of incense interrupting my gaze
Black lines used to define- halt.
Austerity hunts early
Snaking the worm from unfed jaws.
A collaboration picks up
Carving idea where idea left off.
Two energies
Making love.
Ink mates naturally
Clung to his last delicate submission
While nearby...
Glass separates the morning between 43'
And a red desert bloom.
Elegy whispering into pristine quiet
Slipping succinctly into the well-oiled psyche
Of what is yet left to manage and handle.
Rough, warm hands are welcome
To ease the stiffness and solemnity
Of martyred tradition.
Coffee cooled yet candle leads on
Into the aromatic infusion
Of makeshift "attempted" release.
     His lines muscle in
     His devotion- profuse.
     In mirroring our addictions,
     I find secular divinity and sexual homage
     To a world knowing no limit
     As the mind runs wild.

4 Dozen

Holding off has never been so easy.
And yet, it is as it has always been.
Restrained.
Buckled to my senses, to my nonsenses
Merged in unity since before my own opinion
Existed. Formed. Feigned.
How relevant have I made the wrong
Bare-knuckling my own breast
As if it were natural.
And it was, because it had been
Born that way before any notion of self
Was in the cards.

Generational. Coarse ground energies
Eaten in a circle, shit out and sprouted
Eaten again.
Patterns of breathing have evolved
Into nothing but what they came here to do
Destructive when that trauma and Egocentric world
Propagated.
Intensities mix. Intention, inconsequential.
The Lords of handed-down disorder
Ruling yet with leather-fisted indulgence.
Too thick they filled the wounded groove
Of who they inflicted in lives previous.

Cringing. Stimulated by revelations
That I have owned and owned and owned.
Goodness palpitates everywhere,
Blocked by blurred vision, enhanced by
Useless devotion.
Organic medleys linger, making use of any moment
Hint... interest, attentive and caring.
Empathy, magnetic..sincere...willing
These free and beautiful utilities
Open to practice and pungent;
Direct in their giving, their loving, their lift
Unconditional, as it were- to the fullest.

The new waves lap against me each day
Filling blessed moments with sunlight and
Gorgeous intention...
Teaching the elder of how the young love lives
With no effort; strong, amazing, thorough and free.
They are mine, and yielded in the soil I mixed
Pumping laughter and unkempt silliness
Minus the burden of heavy laden miseries.
In decency, in wholesomeness, they lavish my life.
By default I love more than each day before with ease
This enigma of bliss and ache,
So carefully balanced.

Modelo and The Muse.

It might, it might... it might be over soon.
'Might', 'if', 'suppose', 'maybe'
"You are either in or out of your den, which is it?"
Ooh, that place where I find myself
When the crackling dynamite detonates.

He is as good as he ever was, no- He's better.

"Disassociate" Enough.
No other need to fill in the blanks.
"Move on..."
It's what I need to get with the 'getting on'.
Simply put, abrupt. Useful

Smoke-trails, Jameson, whiskers in the sink
It's an all-male event. He even smells masculine.
Thirty year high, like clockwork; he's an oppressive heat
It's good to know that the high standard can still be counted on
When the night stands at his attention.

Philosophy of sound, digressing lyrical brilliance
How to move blockades of 'empty' out of the way
Clipping strings to accord acoustic satisfaction
He plummets deeply, and so we both plunge;
Hand in hand.

Scruff, rubbed closely, and wandering warm hands.
Diligent, pinching fingers, direct in their appeal.
The ringing in of personal new year's has been the best yet.
He has always been close to heart and mind
And so there he will remain.

#Sunday

'Taciturn Indifference'

I sit and to the left

Bold meaning hangs high.

That well-spoken half 

Whose meaning through adornment

Gains weight.

Tilted up and yet legible

I pause to ponder what protection is suitable

To preserve and still allow

Access into your last parting gift.

Riddle me this, O Meister of Misery

How now does your countenance sway?

The days race and whiplash takes me to you

Left side first on almost every morning.

Though your breadcrumbs have molded

I eat them daily.

Upload another chapter 

That I may balloon my own destiny

Anchored to the will 

To leap-

To leap...

To fly with this energy 

That boils when the night is young.

I've cornered myself on the chessboard

Between a Queen and too many pawns.

Strategy is a black veil

That I must lift or tear down.

For this, I turn, to you. 

Are your greyed reserves now blackened ash?

Have your tendons turned to jerky?

I know beyond a shadow that if your blistering heart still pumps

There is wisdom needing cultivating.

So give it to me, you intriguing prick...

For never before have I stapled my soul

To a memory that snuck in through a tiny hole of light

Devouring inhibition as you have.

You, the greatest source of intellectual income

Marrying my heart to my mind.

You, whose experiences left me dry for hesitation

And drowned for the communion of souls.

Two lines now for every point that requires discerning

Earned in the light of your regret and expertise.

Bolted to your door, my essay on 'Retourne chez moi'

Fuck these borders of land and thought. Come back.

And sewn into the wood of my skin with taciturn indifference

"Je demande des nouvelles de toi qui sont encore survivant"

Your words become mine and all this in between meaning

Fucks with my heart and my head.

Find me, Translator:

Let your body language do the rest..

Sound-less

The quiet
Silent movements
Burn me- strong
When they have been left,
Too long, unattended.
This sound-less template
Beckons my being
In its entirety.
I belong to the order of silence
And all things remained unspoken.

Is this prudent
To open a cascading venue
Of wailing?
From a trickle to a whisper
A whine to a wail
I cry in indelible strokes
To any surface that will listen
Any substrate that will welcome
The graceful flow
Of all my deft ability
Crafted carefully, as time wore on.
I am here now
Still perched
Betwixt the arrow and the gap
Of a precipice known too well.