THE RED LINE

THE RED LINE

Monday, October 27, 2014

SURGICAL STRIKE

SURGICAL STRIKE

You once said that you loved me, as you gave me every part of yourself, body and soul, inside and outside -- to have, to hold, to taste, to savor; the indescribable flavor and earthy fragrance of eagerness and brazen, urgent lust.

These were all mine for the taking, and I ate and drank of you, and dreamed and came to you for such was my appetite for your unbridled youth and blind faith in my integrity, and I could not possibly get enough of you in the dark of night, in the light of day, the perfume of your hair your breath your nakedness yearning for communion with my craving, like a starved animal such was I.

When after a rushed, compressed eternity, I had drunk my fill of you, and all of you in every possible way, with the trace of you still upon me, I abandoned you with an inadequate excuse framed artfully as an explanation; an announcement -- but it was a lie, and you felt it as I told it -- for I did not truly understand the delicacy of honest love given wholly and unconditionally in youth, and I failed to see the blessed that I had arbitrarily chosen to discard. 

I was only thinking of what I did not have, and was marching to the fool's drum of greater conquest.

You wept as I left you for the last time. 

Now, after I have regained [or gained for the first time] my senses, caught my breath and returned from the long series of unsatisfying conquests, I have come back amid much pretense and too much artifice, for you.

But you no longer live there. 

I am laid low by the notion that you could go on without me, that you would not restlessly wait for me, an alley addict for my soiled needle and impure drug.

And, for the very first time, I can feel my heart being torn from my chest by an invisible force as I just stand by, a witless witness to my own demise, for the loss of you.

You no longer live there. 

And my heart has been returned to me, piece by bloody piece -- but not as it once was. It is cut through the middle, never to heal, but yet continuing to beat, a somber, slow cadence, as I am barely alive. 

I am able, at last, to stand and walk away from where you and I once intertwined, but only to feel the pain of first love's incision with every labored intake of breath.

You no longer live there. 

But you left your mark upon me, deep within, never to be erased. Incurable, slow death in the form of a life lived in endless agony. I languish in longing.

You no longer live there. You moved on while I was gone.

---


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POET VERITAS

   POET VERITAS

Friday, October 24, 2014

IS ANYONE OUT THERE?

IS ANYONE OUT THERE?

Is anyone out there?

Is anyone out there?

Is anyone out there?

Echoes only to fill the void...




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   POET VERITAS

CHEMICAL WARFARE

CHEMICAL WARFARE

leaving the stuffy building after the sleepy symposium

walking, slowly shuffling, across the vast expanse of summer lawn

sun above at its zenith,

high and shining down so brightly,

preoccupied, I was

and felt the sudden burning in my eyes

and through the unstoppable tears

smelled something like freshly-cut grass and my childhood swimming lessons

as I felt, more than I saw yellow chalky fog coming up from the ground

it was everywhere

and me, I was out of breath but barely moving, chest heaving,

slow motion

knees buckled as an invisible hand

forced me down, low and lower

and I couldn't get any air into my fiery lungs

and I could not cry out

a silent supplicant to the end of reason

kneeling

alone

finally falling on my face

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Saturday, October 18, 2014

HEROES MUST BE DEAD

 HEROES MUST BE DEAD

You could be one of my heroes;

they are but few

and far between

and all of them are dead;

Perhaps I rhapsodize and romanticize about the past

and think that the greatest of us are all gone from the living -

but I do so admire you

(although you do not quite yet qualify)

that I would require of you only one

additional thing;

I have sharpened my implement

and should you come closer and embrace me

you can embrace your fate and your sacred place in my history as well

I entreat your warm surrender into my past

so that I may worship you.

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Monday, October 13, 2014

THE NARROW MAINSTREAM

THE NARROW MAINSTREAM


It once draped most of a hopefully-seeded planet in shining blue

and from ocean, to river to stream it leaves now an arid sphere

as if it (a thread of lies) lived in a pocket of atmosphere growing further from reality

telling tales

as the vacuum of our once world

sucks into it hopelessness -

a catastrophic and metastasizing evil where we once danced and played and sang

and now the singing has been transmogrified into screaming

as mainstream observers speak in detached prose and nuance about the obvious

and we observe the inevitable transformation of a green and blue world into a

parched desert of blood and bone, and stick and stone

except for the narrowing mainstream, now a mere rivulet,

a parody of itself,

shriveling and shrinking from what has become sulfurous and seething, 

oblivious to its own evaporation.

 

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Sunday, October 5, 2014

NIGHTBLOOM


NIGHTBLOOM



In that war-weary world

where the blackness-clad hooded barbarians consume the cowardly vestiges of civilization

and seize everything, living and inanimate, in their path,

despite prayers on bended knees of innumerable supplicants to an absent creator;

where advancing hordes of predators smile with blood-glistened teeth

glowing in the light of a crescent moon, hung like a sickle in the sky;

where the doomed and damned observe, in impotence, from crevices and shuttered dwellings

and await the coming slaughter with shivers and whispers

instead of cries of outrage and acts of valor;

where too many words have, at last, burned up too much time;

where the merciless enemy of the entire sentient species

continues its conquest, undeterred, and devours the fleshly pulp of the formerly proud

and crushes centuries-old cultures hastily under its boots -

and brazenly dictates a future far worse than imagination can translate

to the bowed masses, shivering and soiling themselves - awaiting the fall of the gleaming blades;

with a detached sense of relief in their impending, inescapable release from the once-unthinkable,

as they prepare to embrace the slipping into the nothingness that death surely brings;

as the night blooms wider and wider, obscuring any trace of the sun,

and flourishes, fertilized by a soil rich in freshly-compacted human carcasses.






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