Words tumbled out of an aluminum commode
into a hungry mouth: naïveté.

Libations atop a tin altar
in a squalid temple rife with the stench
of lascivious youth
bemoaned battle cry
transcendent in the sound of forever.

Coming of Age
a cleverly disguised charade
kept in place
by a smile that never breaks
until dawn.

White noise
cryptic static
proselytize
vomiting mucus-draining corpses
a parade of mindless disciples
dancing to the beat
of the heart in a distant star
whose life perished in the forgotten past.

Fabricated promises of maturation
facetiae in the frozen teeth that
only part for the stubborn tongue to
lap up remaining consciousness on the floor
like a begging dog.

By himself he's weak
but among many he's a god.

A song bludgeons the eardrums
"Tonight, tonight, to-night": Repetitio est mater studiorum.

There's a voice in my head but
you put a hand o'er it's mouth
and pried mine open with
the monkey's paw
clutching a rose goblet
containing spiritual cleansing.

I've got a good idea
but bad intentions
and there's enough feculence wrapped in flesh and lies
to make this place feel like Heaven.

Stuffing my mouth with promises and
fallacies
that won't become clear until the
bottle is empty.

I'm washing away all the pain
and the hurt
right?
I'm a man now, risen from the
dirt
right?

I'll put my trust in the siren's call
reaching through the fog to grasp
her by the hair
I fall into the murky bog
beleaguered by strangulating tendrils
wrapping around my frail bones
I feel I'm being pulled under
and I'm all alone
I see their shimmering faces on the surface
distorted
in the reflection
peering into the soul as I
make my descent into the abyss.

Waking up a man with a
battered conscience
Compromise wraps a warm blanket around
me and places coffee between
crusty and brittle fingers
A gentle kiss on my forehead
is the finishing touch
leaving me alone with my baleful torment.

Coming of Age is a charade.