My Recurring Themes

Being loved for me

Without expectation or fantasy

Seems difficult to believe

With my experience of me.

Not so much a wreck,

I survive and reflect

On which parts feel neglect

Like an Art without affect.

My solace is stained,

In my solitude contained

With a sadness ingrained

And expression estranged.

I mumble and shake,

Needs pulsing and awake,

Demanding that I break

Whatever is at stake.

I’ve worn out these flaws,

Dissected their causes,

Accepted my losses,

But still wrapped in their familiar claws.

Defiance In Love

Lucifer fell

Into the quiet twilight

To look through the window

Of a secluded home.

Her silver wings chilled

In the pine-scented air,

With the frost on her breath

Rising against the glass.

The last waneing candle

Threw light to the form

Wrapped up in a blanket

Collapsed on the floor.

Hand to the frame

And her face pressing close,

The light and the shadow

Danced over the reposed

While frost ate away

The one brain who still knew

What depths of tribulation

The Angels went through.

The insanity of fortune,

The lunacy of life,

The meaningless chasm

Of fractured love.

Reposed on the floor,

In seven breaths or less,

Of a sudden and quiet

Didn’t work anymore.

The death of a dream

Like a paradise of light

Lost from expectation,

From memory, and sight.

Lucifer fell

Away from the pane

With a sigh at her lips

And eyes shuttered with rage.

The frost in her wings,

The misery that aches,

The cruelty in love

Of defiance to faith.

 

The Broken Heart Of A Thief

The thief’s heart broke

When sleight of hand failed

To hold onto his refuge

Inside another’s care.

Cold-empassioned power

Over objects he desired

Dissevered him form owning

Up to his affairs.

Compassion held at length,

Practiced sparingly at best,

Serves a frigid education

On attatchment’s frail grasp.

Cleverness and cunning

And other secrets of the craft

Stole nothing more than money,

Indifferent to the last.

Clasped in no one’s arms

And kissed by nothing’s lips

To procure another hour

In which to exist.

The theif consumed a fifth,

Broke the bottle, cut his flesh,

Threw himself through fire

Till he physically was numb,

But the bleeding never ceased

In the lovelessness of loss,

His temper always burning,

Wishing feeling would be done.

At length, despair entrenches,

Cruelly cradled in its womb

With his temper snuffed to ashes

And abrasions scabbed away.

To live or not to live,

To steal and not to give,

Decisions made in silence

Over living on this way.

Is it some force of fate

That the labor he hates

Is the credit he desires

Now that all else is dead?

He begs for bitter toil

As a mercy to his hate,

Hoping somehow to be healed

From his existential dread.

The thief turned to begger,

Not for money or relief,

But for service to another

For submission to defeat.

Humbled in desperation,

Pleading to be re-loved,

Bleating for a shelter

Possessed at someone’s feet.

The heart hurt more than hunger,

The misery worse than rage,

The spleandor of his plunder,

The thief, for love, would trade.

Please Love …

It’s relieving;

A passion, intellect, and creativity

In a mind that’s not my own.

Intricacies of thought

In curling spirals interwove

Between the heart and dreams

Of an identity aflux

With wants and contradictions

Too personal to touch.

I admire you

For careing too much

But regardless carrying on

For every scalpel to your heart

And every nail in your palm.

Through bleeding and rust

From trust turned to deciet

By the quivering hands

Of one once at your feet.

I’m touched

Just to know you’re alive

Helps in feeling less alone

When depression’s winter chill

Seeps into teeth and bone.

If a thought could reach

From my bossom to yours,

I’d give as much love

As your heart could endure.

All of this to say,… / beyond the capacity to influence.

Discomfort, and memories of events that I wish had never occurred.

Mistakes, or missteps or circumstances that were beyond my capacity to influence.

Allow me to start over,…

A naïve sensitive boy meets a girl far more sensitive but far less naïve.

She knows things about pain, rape, heartbreak, and the general things that the least lucky women come to know.

She’s a masochist by natural selection, in that she was selected by events beyond her capacity to influence.

He was a sadist in the same way, not dangerous, but perfectly willing to scratch her wherever she itched, if so desired.

All of this to say,…

They fell in love, heavily, in the worst kind of way too cliché to describe with a straight face.

The way in which more experienced lovers might scoff or turn away from, sickeningly.

Stupid love, in which both parties imagine that the other was tailor made for their needs.

Where every mental or emotional quirk was not only satisfied, but celebrated as what makes them special and unique.

They were smitten, and when they fucked it was passionate enough for them to cry about.

Melting into each others pores, sweating and savoring every precious moment of it.

The way she would say, “Please, put your cigarette out on my back baby, please!”

And the way he would hesitate, and say, “I can’t find a place you haven’t already burned yourself.”

And the way she’d say, “Do it anyway.”

All of this to say,…

It ended in the worst possible way, dramatically, traumatically, it ended with a rape.

The way in which a stray wolf confuses masochism with someone willing to be used in any kind of way.

While he, the boy, the naïve and sensitive boyfriend was beyond the capacity to influence it in any way.

Where he and she were both beyond the capacity to influence the event that destroyed their naïve and innocent cliché.

The wolf however, did pay. You understand, as a sadist himself the boy knew exactly how that wolf felt.

The sick and selfish ways in which he enjoyed the girl’s humiliation and pain.

Which is why his switchblade cut the wolf across his face, and may have killed him if he hadn’t been restrained.

Anyway, those two lovers are now estranged. She’s married and he’s still walking around somewhere looking dazed.

All of this to say,…

If you see a young man reading a poem about erotic bloodlust and heartbreak, he probably know what the fuck he’s talking about. Thanks.

 

Last Words

“Never contact me again.”

“Fine,” I said, and proceeded to verbally assault her, spitting my intoxicated childish insults in a rage, feeling hurt and betrayed she would react in such a way. My last words to her, and to this day I’m ashamed when I re-read that text and I’m painfully reminded of how stupid and petty I was in that state.

“I hope you sober up and realize what you’ve done.”

That one came the next day before I was awake. Upon waking and reading I denied my mistake. I couldn’t solely take the blame for this thing, when I considered the original text I hade made, quoting John Lennon innocently enough, something about “Love” that set her off so rapidly.

We don’t talk anymore,

And I can’t say that that isn’t how it should be, but I can’t help but regret what the last thing I said was. “Never contact me again,” she said, and I obeyed, not wanting to make myself a problem for her, but also not willing to admit the one I had made, knowing she’ll remember me by those last things I said.

It’s over forever now,

Unfortunately that’s just how it has to stay. I can’t replace or erase my regrets from that day, but I’ve so many regrets from the choices WE’D made, and too many fond memories that get in the way. If she wants to hate me I guess that that’s fine. I can’t help but feel I still love her some times.