Brief the Blink.

Your eyes, wide
and narrowed
down on me. Knee-high

boots, black leather,
assorted kink
and occult, darkly

melodic
products of your lips:
it all draws me in, inspires
soul nausea, elicits

enantiodromia,
on into flashing
images, typed commands,
polyrhythmic voices

making their rounds,
pumping lead like a machine gun,
polluting consciousness

one way or the other:

submissive
or dominant,
either top dog or under,
whether oppressed or oppressor,

pulling
attention, narrowing
essence
towards psychological
absorption.

Release. Ecstatic. Peek
dead into my alien soul,
despite how brief the blink

between these two dual,
extreme states of madness.

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Final Threads of the Wick (Answer to Ishmael).

Perhaps we needed
the Agricultural Revolution,
our great divergence
from the history of our species,
and on top
of that, the Industrial Revolution,

despite all the damage
it has caused, all the horrors
it provided, like the ghosts
and ghouls haunting

the countless stories divided
into rooms associated via
hallways and steps

in this stairway-to-heaven rivaling
skyscraper,
my double-whammy apocalypse,

the foundation,
my mountain.

Maybe we needed the gun
held to our heads by a hand
with a known

trigger finger
to finally find in ourselves
the capacity
we all had all along to summon
the power to change:

to conjure the will
to climb
to plant my stupid,
fucking flag

come to this point
of Crucial Choice:

do we want to pay attention,
educate ourselves, be decisive,
and fight

to preserve as prosperous
a future for our descendents
that we can manage
or do we

want to live fast
and die
young, burn

the candle
at both ends
till they make it through the wax
and kiss as they consume
the final threads

of the wick and far
more quickly fade
from the big, glazing bonfire
memory

we continue to hold
in our minds to distract

us from the present ember
fading
in a thick
nest of ashes?

Porchlight Philosophy.

Odd glow:
bound to attract insects,
among
them mosquitoes

hellbent
at sucking
the life
out of your alien,
indigo soul.

That’s simply
all
there is to it.

You could run,
hold your ground,
showered with cheers,
confetti
from all around,

yet you stand

sad, frustrated.
Hateful
as it makes you,
you’re brought down
to the level

where you come
to accept
its possible,
even probable,

and as alternatives
fade away

one by one,

you stop and ask
yourself: did
it really fucking
have to be
this way,

burning

from obscurity

into infinity?

Under the Skin.

Lacerate, tear it all away.
Beneath insatiable attraction,
revulsion to the core. A monster
gift-wrapped in seduction.

Behold the instincts
and their enticing illusions.

Satisfied now
that you have stumbled foolishly
along your journey

into the belly of the whale,
incubated in this womb
you enter when taking shelter
under the skin

the prerequisite
for greater enlightenment,

or must
you suffer
further,
bear the return
of this circle?

War of the Walking Damned.

“When I was a kid, I asked my grandpa once if he ever killed any Germans in the war. He wouldn’t answer. He said that was grown-up stuff. So I asked if the Germans ever tried to kill him, but he got real quiet. He said he was dead the minute he stepped into enemy territory. Every day he woke up and told himself, ‘Rest in peace. Now get up and go to war.’ And then, after a few years of pretending he was dead, he made it out alive. That’s the trick of it, I think. We do what we need to do and then, we get to live. But no matter what we find in DC, I know we’ll be okay. Because this is how we survive. We tell ourselves that we are the walking dead.”
— Rick Grimes, The Walking Dead (episode 5×10).

Smoke and fire.
Channeled rage.
No choice left for us,
so war, it must be waged.

Pretend to know we win;
that today,
we build a better world;
that you don’t die
and make it
through to the end:

and in that order.

Camaraderie.
Determination.
No mercy…

at least
until there’s no
choice again…

Who are we?

So we were cornered
into this, understood,
but now

we are left to question
where we all draw
our limitations,
or if we save

the chalk to outline
the silhouettes
of the enemy:

how much of ourselves
do we sacrifice on our path
of death and destruction
to liberate ourselves?

Fighting fire with fire,
striving to ensure
that we’re never too far gone,
never stray too far

and become the enemy
in order to defeat them,
for even

if we meet with triumph,
who is truly left
when the war is finally won?