Sex, Love & Starborne Seeds.

Let me
mash and smear my lips
against your soft

pair, gliding down, so thorough,
hands ascertaining form
like the skilled blind:

an assist
for the exploratory tongue trek
down your neck
and breasts, fearlessly entering

the vice
at the heart
of your inner thighs,

where I dig,
and wiggle
till I see your light.

Let me bury me in you.

Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.

of that single scene
behind me, allow

me to penetrate
you viciously, enact the rhythm

calling to me,
permit entrance

to your deep, dark, enlivening
inside, where I at once
hide and let
the consequential bliss rise
as I ride the wave,

me in the safety
of us,

the cradle of the bond,

now, finally one.
Not just
is it what I’ve always

wanted, but I suspect, it’s all
I have, will or would

to start this journey.

You are all I love,
who I want,
all I need:

a long-awaited season
for a hopeless starborne seed:

unless you or circumstance
to metaphorically fuck me
and leave

me empty and wanting.


Ruin, Solve.

Never shall you escape
me. In that alone,
I find comfort. Anticipation
rising: painfully.

I know you through
and through, in a billion contexts
and relationships. Lost in your sclera
whiteouts, swimming
through your luscious, vivid, intense iris,

myself to those blissful, blessed
black holes, wormholes

to countless parallel universes,
time ultimately betrayed
in the static face,

as I still came out the other end
the same, still awaiting
the right moment

to engage, embodying
the force
accurately described

but not commonly
known as the cock-block
to unification
with the cosmos.

Awareness has only bred
an increasingly
distinct, clearly alien soul,
but a deeper love
for you

and all that you are. Never
will I escape

the euphoric, psychologically-unifying
trap you constitute. Every angle
I explore, you prove to be beautiful,
to manifest

as a labyrinth I can never
escape the deep
impulse to truly penetrate,

with the heart of. And a part
of me is enthralled
as the rest is writhing

in agony
that you’re truly blind
to the power
in your hands,

which if you elected
to wield

ruin, solve


Bullseye & Synthesis.

Face it. Just shut
up, get over
it. Open

your trembling arms, clammy
and vibrating fingers
and embrace, accept the fact

that time is speeding
up. Waste not time

so as to discipline
the owner of the lead foot
that succumbs to gravity
and naturally puts unparalleled,

unrelenting pressure
on the temporal accelerator,

as doing so wastes
more of it, which satisfies
the determined foe,
as you’ve framed
it. Instead, in response

to this existential fast-forward,
boil passion that dictates
you won’t waste:

that another blink shan’t
pass you by.

Calculation of acceleration:
you could die at any time,
wake up to find

yourself 89
and looking down
the barrel of mortality.

But will it be with anxiety,
or ease? What would comfort
you? And in the interest
of getting there:

what would it take to satisfy?

When we swing the dart,
that should be our bullseye…

Philosophy of the Jungle.

Looking back,
this path

through a jungle, so thick,
with a skull to match

has led
me nowhere but ’round
and insane,
but I keep pushing
through, machete in hand,
hacking away,

slowly feeding the illusion
I’ll escape one day
and reach a higher plane.

Might as well live the lie
till you find the truth,
as I’ve found dying’s no escape
and fighting
who and what I am,
it’s just no use.

Ongoing Battles in a War of Will.

Immobilized. Playing dead
but forced into the role,
faking it
towards making it.

All doubt in them: obliterated.

All the rest of my life,
a silly dream, now shaken
into reality just before
it seems its about to be ripped
from me. Fear and frustration
of an ensnared soul.

A just universe? What a joke.

No answers, no graduation,
just eternal recurrence
of the same song and dance.

Another veil to suffocate.
More memories abandon me.

Lost to what I’m fighting
for, surviving, snarling clawing
away at what my heart
screams at, subsisting
my own stubbornness.

Alien Agenda.

Can’t see it, so
blessed be
The Great Horizon,

but you can feel
it like a tidal wave,
like a doomsday
bearing down,

you hear the music
at that pivotal moment
in that epic horror flick
and think
you know what’s coming,

hoping lightyears
beyond the heights

of their mythological hells,
utterly paling
in comparison,

that you’re wrong,

with every square inch
that you have

that ominous sense
of certainty

that you’re not.

Depths & Complexities.

in my chaotic mess
of head again. This skull,
as thick
as it is is soft, striving,

for information to dismiss
or engage, honing
in on the intricacies of allegations,
results of studies,

worthiness of proposed
hypotheses. Sinking
like Cousteau, traversing,
wound in the webs
I’m weaving. Depths

and complexities: beneficial
or threatening?

No teacher or master
to trust, left
to my own devices, glitchy
and characteristically
malfunctioning. Truth is far
too much to ask

for, certainly couldn’t identify
them in a lineup,
so I invest my hopes

in greater

All I ask
for from the cosmos
is evolution.

I can take, have taken,
labyrinthian pathways, dead
ends, brick walls
and alleged revelations,

all in hopes,
perhaps blind, only guided
by naïveté,

that my soles plod
on the path

towards greater

Maybe Insane.

Mysteries invigorate
me, exploring
possibilities, finding hidden
connections stimulates

me, so bring
it on, I can take another flood
of oddities, I can bear
not knowing
so long as I can increase

but I need to know

I’m not insane, can’t bear

my mental stability.
Been at it too long now,
the agony
of self-suspicion.

It’s exhausting.

I need confirmation
that I’m not just fooling
myself at some deeper level,

that this isn’t all
just a conspiracy
against the self.