The Sinking Razor

Back and forth

Swings the razor’s edge

Cutting every second

In perpetual rhythm.

Sleeping in distress,

No syllable expressed

Of the grinding apparatus

Against our bosom.

Frivolous in deeds,

Expedient in needs,

As the pendulum swings

Deeper through the chest.

Insouciant appearing,

Lacerations searing,

Tickling tender nerves

And numbing all the rest.

Revelry in laughter

Midst superficial chatter,

Ticking ever onward

And bleeding fibers pale.

Gaiety and madness

In masochistic gladness,

Sinking through the heart,

Defiant shallowness impaled.

 

 

 

 

 

The Weight Of Melancholy

The melancholy burden that I’m bearing

Like the nihilists famous heavy stone

Struggling arduously up every day’s mountain

And every night clinging to the point where I fall

Romanticized masochism  is a strange comfort

It only works outside the moment of pain

Inside the laborious hours of my punishment

My greatest strength is to appear numb and vain

Disguising every feeling but my vile contempt

Hiding every weakness but for the fact I’m weak

Clinging to attachments but never hold them down

Never allowed outside me, but pining for release

Stoic, like a martyr without any good cause

Proud, as if shame were not prides real cloak

Damaged, un-admittedly as though it weren’t obvious

Sad, for everyone to see and for no one to know

If the hills were hollow I could sleep in them

Instead of tumbling down every jagged plateau

If madness and the void were reconcilable

I could easily have done what I’d supposed

I cannot feel glad for Sisyphus

It seems stupidity is an inherent fate

And I cannot lament my tragedy

Not while I continue to dig my grave

I could easily suffer better for forever

And hope that someone feels for me and sings

But could I relinquish struggling and just show you?

Would you survive through all my secret dreams?

 

 

 

 

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.

 

Better to seek suffering –

Pulse pounding erotic bloodlust,

Simulated sadism sustaining vicarious power

Heart sick, hollow, sexual submission

Combustion, stamen, pistol and flower.

Body and blood tasting,

Seductive sad smiles that stimulate

Rational animals seeking suffering

Suffer me slowly, so I may pollinate.

Shall I be the stamen or pistol?

Should I say what I’m trying to say?

Should separations, so separate us?

Shall I pretend that I’m only playing?

Will you give me, give up everything?

Will you make me, take me all away?

Can I hold you, hurt you in my arms?

Can I thrust you, trust you all the same?

Desperate tears for our garden,

Tender kisses for our wounds,

Knives for our fresh lacerations,

Sleep for our comfort, entombed.

Do you see what I’m trying to say?

How much this, is really me?

Are you enjoying my display?

Is this how it’s better to be?