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 Bleeding Spot

Thoughts pass

Unfazingly through my consciousness,

Falling ineffectively

Outside my bleeding spot.

The centerpiece,

The open wound from my crown of thorns

Constantly prickling

My most tender aspects.

Soaking out

To infect every fragment of my mind.

Aggravating peace

And re-shaping my disposition.

Never healing,

The abrasion too painful to touch,

Pulsating madly

At the suggestion of sensation.

Reaching in,

Only to tickle it for a moment

Sends it gushing

And pouring down my tear-spout.

Let it out.

Empty this swollen mass of trauma

Little by little

Until it’s finally gone forever.

Children Of Pain

Never forget a childhood spent in pain

Or the sufferings that are unique in youth.

As a living being dependent on protection,

Conditioned to accept and embrace their misuse.

From seething traumas to reinforced behaviors

We’re shuttled from shelter by society’s whims.

Pre-designed systems of disciplinary education,

Traditions of conduct to make us like them.

Emotions you’d feel but maybe couldn’t explain,

Ideas dismissed as mere innocent mistakes.

Assumptions that you couldn’t know better

From adults who didn’t understand how you think.

Petty injustices seemed relatively large

When individual happiness meant the whole world.

The first steps towards tasting the bitterness of life,

To the first sight of cruelty’s colors unveiled.

Remember your rights and remember your wrongs,

Remember the choices left for others to decide,

Remember what you were and how you’ve been changed,

And remember the battles you used to fight.

Know children everywhere will face the same pains,

Know they’ll be fighting as we did to survive,

So when you acquire some decisions on fate,

Remember adults are who structure their lives.

 

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?

Poison, Pain, and Punishment

He didn’t like the taste.

Both bitter sweet and acrid.

His tongue and throat incensed with displeasure

With a disposition towards inducing vomit.

He swallowed and held in the bile.

It was painful but necessary.

There was no avoiding that poison,

and the sooner it was finished the better.

Ahh, true apothecary.

He could feel it settling in his stomach.

Very soon it would pass into the bloodstream

setting his nerves afire punishingly.

But he knew he would not die.

Pain beyond pain, agony, torture,

but he would not die.

This was not a death sentence.

It was a pain to last a lifetime.

To be remembered, never truly fading,

unless one was miserable enough to become numb to it.

“Fuck you Eve,” he said to himself.

It wasn’t fair, but that was how he felt.

He knew he was getting what he deserved.

But that didn’t stop the anger, or the resentment.

The poison dissolved quickly. He could feel it now.

“God damn you Eve!” He shouted. “God damn! Fuck me!”

Tears fell. Profanities were spat. The worst was soon over.

But the pain was always there beneath the surface.