Good For It.

Apologies:

never was I normal,
and my attempts to fake
it has led

me to believe I could never
be, so I
endure this spiritual wedgie,
hoping for love

inspired by a synchronous soul,
a passionate,
dreadfully dark and twisted
personality encompassing, serving

a wayward essence,
a dissident consciousness:
an eerie, weird spark,
a lone one

that accepts me as I am
and embraces
the latent potentiality

agonizingly eager to actualize
all I could be

and would fail to abandon
me if I miraculously managed
to embody that dreamy
ideal…

and if I am

left wanting, I will adapt,
control and evolve
accordingly:

I left you every reason
to, but in
this instance, I beg
you: don’t you dare

doubt me.

Love me. I’ll give
you anything, everything.

Advertisements

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,
dance
and wiggle
till I see your light.

Let me bury me in you.

Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.

Finale
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,

awakening
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
need

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
decides
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,
sacrificing

myself to those blissful, blessed
black holes, wormholes
leading

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,

resonate
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
would

ruin, solve

everything.

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
identifying,

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,
fuck:
that should be our bullseye…

Crossed/Aligned.

Silent, warm, and in comfort
above the breathtaking planet.

As it happens,
I got here a bit early.

Calm in my isolation,
awaiting your inevitable presence,
true and type-of-blue
in my nakedness,

no one to witness.
Only I know, though I offer
you fuel for suspicions.

Always knew I’d die a thousand more times
just to bring
you here to dance
with me in the freefall,
swim with me in the stars,

to let my glow bathe in your light,
to show you, far beyond all those needless skins
we crossed and tangled our mutual wordlines in,

the kind of beauty, freedom, and endless depths of meaning
you always reminded me of

when we were both lost, angry and sad,

and I finally got
to see and be around you again.

In this space
free of circumstance,
we will meet,
and then…

Closer to Being.

Struggled with the Shadow,
so on it goes with the Anima.

Elevating above the battle,
it’s clear to see what strategies
constipate the route to synthesis.

For too long engaging
in the struggle with oppositions,
now getting between, behind, below
and finally rising above,

I see them for what they are
and what I am not.

And I am that much closer
to being who I am.

Now a Tree.

Lay blame at the feet of fear,
always striving to perpetuate
the illusion of control.

Cast aspersions instead
at the ground
around the soles of love,
alluring

despite the death inherent
in it, as a porchlight
might be for a nocturnal insect.

Run with your will to be free
from any semblance of responsibility
until the pain

forces you to ascend, like a spiritual gag reflex
into a transcendent space above,
where you take control, surfing the waves
of your former, illusory boundaries.

Rooted in suffering,
now a tree with branches striving
to wind
themselves in the skies of true liberty.

Of Soul and Ego.

Refuse
to have this antagonistic, aquatic nuisance
swimming
around inside my fluid, fishbowl of a head.

No longer
will I tolerate this cerebral house fly
buzzing ‘round, relentless, serving as a living thorn
in the side of my every waking day.

Undisturbed, unmoved, unreactionary,
I will ascend and resist
the push and pull below,

refuse to engage
with, to cling to or resist, the constant onslaught
of this internal, eternal bullshit.

If I die, it won’t be in the arms
or by the hand of these killer whispers
in my aching head.

Slavery reached it’s end.

I am free.

I have a will and I choose
to rise above this.

I am my soul and can no longer
bear to live
in the chains and bars
required by this.

Don’t Stir the Echoes.

Laxative
for the constipated life.

Got so damned dark
in my cell
until I saw the light
and bathed in its warmth
as it burned away the thorns.

Damning
all my vice-grip fears
and the ceaseless, criticizing
chatterbox in my cranium,

decide now
to acknowledge
those whispers and open
myself to the anxiety
as I calmly, stubbornly
refuse to engage
with them.

I’m not what you say.
Doesn’t matter anyway.
I’m not listening anymore.

This is war.