Forty years of drawing circles in the salt,
While checking the $pH$ of the soil and the fault.
He cites the Second Law—how everything must fray—
Then lights a black candle to keep the heat-death at bay.
A Capricorn’s rigor; a cynic’s sharp tongue,
Collecting the soot where the censers have swung.
He knows that the sigil is just a cognitive hack,
A glitch in the grey matter, painting it black."Placebo,"
he whispers, while etching the floor,
Then invokes a demon he claims to ignore.
It’s a statistical outlier, a ghost in the code,
A shortcut through logic on a very dark road.
The grimoire is leather, the laptop is chrome,
He’s mapped out the stars and the human genome.
He doesn't "believe"—that’s a word for the weak;
He simply observes the results that he seeks.
For if gravity’s constant, and light has a speed,
Then surely a curse is just a focused-ion need.
He’s fifty, he’s tired, his joints hum with rain,
A lifetime of seeking the ghost in the brain.
He pours out the wine, though he knows it’s just grape,
To the dark, silent forces that give matter its shape.
Science is how the grand engine is greased,
But Magick? That’s just... how you talk to the beast.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 10:16 PM UTC
You are the unresolved theorem
pacing the halls of my 2026 routine,
a colleague whose active listening
feels like a confessional.
I watch you deconstruct a peer-reviewed paper
with a surgical precision that makes my blood race,
wondering if that same meticulous logic
applies to the way you choose your partners.
I am smitten by the gravity of your silence.
I hunt for subtext in your spreadsheets,
looking for a glitch in the heteronormative script
we both play by every day from 9 to 5.
Are you as cerebral in the dark as you are in the light?
Or does your intellect only
fornicate with ideas
while the man remains untouched?
This forbidden curiosity
is a slow-burn existential dread.
I find myself dreaming in footnotes,
wondering if our frequencies will ever align
beyond the structural integrity of the boardroom.
I want to strip away the professional lexicon
and see if your orientation
is as fluid
as the philosophy you so effortlessly defend.
Until then, I’ll stay in the shadows of your logic,
deeply, sultry-dark in my hunger for the truth of you.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 5:43 PM UTC
I am drowning in the short-wave silence of your presence.
You are the lapis lazuli ground into a pigment
so rare it was once worth a kingdom.
I find you in the crushing weight of the benthic zone,
where the pressure is a ghost’s embrace
and only the bioluminescence of the soul provides a guide.
You are the morpho butterfly’s wing—not a pigment,
but an interference pattern of light,
an architecture of diffraction that exists
only within the specific geometry of my gaze.
I long for the sapphire chill of your skin,
a drowning that feels like returning to the saltwater womb
of the deep Atlantic.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 7:46 PM UTC
(A dark, sultry descent into intellectual obsession)
The most dangerous thing about you is your silence—
the way you let a premise hang in the air
until it suffocates the room.
I want to get lost in the liminal spaces of your psyche,
where the shadow work happens,
where your theories go to bleed.
Forget the light; I want the Nietzschean abyss
staring back at me through your pupils.
Strip away the social contract, the polite "how-are-yous,"
and give me the existential dread you mask with high-concept metaphors.
I find a predatory grace in the way you dismantle
a weak argument—slow, surgical, and utterly absolute.
I’m hungry for the friction of our contradictions.
Press your logic against mine until the heat
warps the structural integrity of our cynicism.
I don’t want to hold your hand;
I want to hold your attention—
hostage—
until we’ve mapped every dark corner
of the unconscious mind.
Teach me the architecture of your hunger.
I promise I’m a quick study
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 7:25 PM UTC
(A light, playful exploration of intellectual flirtation)
You’re a glitch in my standard operating procedure,
a lateral thinking puzzle I’m not in a rush to solve.
While the city plays checkers, you’re out here
playing 4D chess with a grin that says checkmate
before I’ve even moved my pawn.
I like the way your curiosity wanders—
off-leash, sniffing at quantum entanglement
and why the sky in 2026 feels like a different shade of blue.
You’re a walking Etymology dictionary;
you trace the roots of my laughter back to a dead language
and make it feel brand new.
Let’s trade thought experiments like baseball cards.
Tell me your favorite paradox while we split an espresso.
I’m not looking for a soulmate—
I’m looking for a sparring partner
whose wit is as quick as a fiber-optic pulse.
Keep me on my toes, keep my synapses sparking;
your brain is the playground,
and I’m never going home.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 12:31 AM UTC