Wednesday, January 18, 2017

In the Backseat

Perspiration trickles down
Sweat beads, that caress
Like inspiration on goose pimpled flesh.
Responding to scary familiarity,
trembling hands go fumbling
to grasp at straps
and buckles and skin.
Taught reactions fraught with impulse.
Worrying about predatory familiarity
as whispers gush for secret places,
afraid for the thoughts that wish
for a four letter word that isn't love.
Simple kisses erupt in magma flows
that fertilize the broken soil,
for nature seldom complex's thoughts.
There's a calmness in the promises,
but crosses stare down
memories of forgotten lectures.
Exhale. Then inhale,
with balled up fists
and a cold streamed shower
to wash the sin away.
If human nature be worth it
to condemn,
then condemn,
for I partake for silence.

Trembling Hands

In a certain light,
Trembling hands that grasp
as though driven like a cat
To mouse, not starved
but hungry for that urge
to hunt, and nibble.

In a certain light
Sinful to be that impulsive
With those trembling hands that grasp
At clasps, and buckles
A heart deprived and thumping
Out of a confused chest.

In a certain light
Trembling hands that grasp
Into fists after kisses curse
That clothes fit so right
Despite what eyes betray
And goose pimpled flesh conveys
In shortened harsh un-composed breaths.

In that certain light
Where trembling hands can grasp
A mouse, like a house cat had
And bat around till it gone limp
With shock and awe
Satisfied with the game for now,
But not forever,
No not at all.

Predatory animal skills
Sometimes as savage
Often more gentle
In a certain light
With trembling hands that lust.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Familiar Predators

FAMILIAR PREDATORS

they slink in like rattle snakes
shaking their tails for music
drawing forth attention with rhythm
or to wise, a warning song
and then they choose to be bitten
with a certain intoxication that only venom can bring
though they bleed through puncture holes
and though they are swallowed whole
some prey discern no pain, devoured wholly

a skillful hawk descends with piercing talons
and in its sinful search pauses in momentum
piercing the water with a needle precision
and pulling them up one by one
carrying it squirming, flailing and dripping
grasping it tightly, firmly delicately,
as jealous flesh holds jealous flesh
hawk to sky, prey to sea
married to each respectively
till it being torn from habitat to nest
is dried and died in the moving
ready to feed a hawks family
with every little thing it had left

a lion dominating his lioness
biting neck and growling submissions
like whispered threats in her ravaged ears
for she stronger and sleeker than he
feeds him and the mass of mutts of cubs
smarter and more cunning, her strength his drive
aroused over mutual predatory instincts

and a house cat, never starved but still
pouncing on the field mouse
as though driven by something deep inside
poised to strike by command of parasites
because the shape of mice unlocks the sight
and claws once retracted grow
and the house cat licks its chops and struts
a sway, and tip toes under patted feet
till its cornered it, now given a choice
to deliver its mouth promptly, a killing bite
soaked against the predators tongue,
or to toy with it, and let it suffer like a toy
once warm blooded eventually cold, rigid, and
slain.

Abstraction Absolution Abonimation

I contribute a listless life to this universe
Non-categorized among these numbered pages
Because what can hawks gleam for sustenance
From the dusty bones of a human skeleton
What is gripped in the talons of that predator
Will burst into minute powders that flail away
Like memories of long lost lovers who found
That what they loved was control of hate
So red and volatile as the lust in their loins
Penetrating each as if they should just be knives
Or a prodded utensil like Satan's pitchfork
A torturous device to emit the pain close to death
Because what is more angry than a fallen angel
Scolded for being cast down by the father
And mothers who themselves were no damned saints
You in the puddle with water like blood over it
It being the skeleton clenched by daggers of a terrifying predator, spawned by hellfire.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

A Wilted Wallow of Willing Willows

In a dying garden a girl walked among the fade of the roses
The wilted browns dwindling through a line till they were cool gray
In the depths of cold and winter, heavy in the shade of the trees with no leaves
The wilted keep on dwindling until the facade they use to have gives way to faded memories
In this their final bow before the curtain unfurls in its horizontal falls and folds
The wilted will silently escape the evisceration of the world as the rest of the living become dead
In all the world no one really cared to take the steps that would result in the scent of the dying roses
The wilted seldom want to be adored as the skin cells know the score having died always
In those oncoming tones as the phones ring off the hook and their annoyance ring and ting
The wilted cannot cry, for they cannot feel, not of their stems, not of their senses, not even of their non-existing souls

Monday, January 9, 2017

Abhor the Ab-horror

For the sake of tomorrow let the hours wile away and deceive themselves among this present digression
Let the words of the fathers fall on the deaf ears of mute sons who cannot think but to speak of nothing of the sort
In this the final hours of the human race in which the focal point is now of fecal maturation on the eve of the sinners reign
Let this shit show initiate in the eyes of the regime the reigning faults of the feeble minded, who ignore the factual facade of the festering fall
For the sake of tomorrow let the hours wile away and deceive themselves among this present digression
Let the mutual admiration I shared for the amicable platitudes that betwixt the swan song of the morning dove
In this their final hatred let the devilish adolescences slew their parental confinements and emerge as copulating saints,
Let them be unafraid of the masturbation of their sins, as their flesh is akin to singing full of lust and love, and little else
For in the throes of love making they can ignore the materials of this realm and those of their fabled other, and the sex-full people will spread
They will gather all exposed,  all those body parts warm and cold, in the seasons twisting through days and years and lifetimes
For this openness they can see that nothing was so terrible as they said, and their exhausting need to control the populace was unwarranted
Let the record show, the oral sex, and penetrations were not the coming of the anti-Christ, but instead it was the restrictions of their  biology that caused men to grow rigid in mind
Where they felt compelled in boiling minds to trample on the free love, and joint smoking masses who didn't give two shits about the hereafter
For the sake of tomorrow let the hours wile away and deceive themselves among this present digression,
Yes, for the sake of our unborn children, let us stop the abhorrent need to abhor at all, let the hate fade, and yes, just let it fade.