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 Mar 2017
Butch Decatoria
He has no suspicious ideas

about these hidden thoughts of mine.

The "Got it Twisted" wickedness

Boy

Have I got ideas of what I could do to him,

The experience of my prowess

The sensual heights

I could bring him

Service him the vice of moist

Lips of this mouth

The levies I could break...

Even now (ONE Mississippi)

The Earnestness of the warmth in my groin

(TWO Mississippi)

trains of thought / tight caboose / and whistling steam

(Thrice Mississippi...)

My imbalance seems becoming obvious

So we hurriedly converse,

Our talk :

Brief with business lingo

(My eyes high on his physique)

In the interim

Exchange our dimes,

Buddha in my hand...

"Wuss up?"

'Sup bro... (a synchronized nod)

In the pause of dead air,

I mad dog him with my eyes

                          (Drunk off his musk).

He has no idea about these ideas

The silent stealth of the naked thoughts in my *******,

The twisted scene of my imagination's

Motion pictures...


******** him off to completion.
 Mar 2017
Butch Decatoria
Oh my dearest Life,
Oh soul of mine,

Oh heart!

Imperfect within this mortal coil,
Within our ribs a cage,
Perfectly attuned to love and hate
To sky and soil,
The rage of dying days...

Oh how like the wind that craves
to rush with sighs,
To fly, to wish,
My yearning dreams doth the same
For substances of lips
Made flesh from kiss
As corporeal
Your touch since, missed
Lingers still ...

Oh when I close my eyes
How perfect my ignorant bliss
Oh I pine to fly
Away from the ache of this

My imagination's lovely will
And lovelorn heart,
Fallen apart and untouched still...
Influenced by a fantasy
A childish kind of mind, of flesh,
Eyes blinded by your brevity:

The beauty of Days' caress
Brilliant in its levity
Poetic in its might :
The heart's glowing light!

Oh Beloved!
Oh divine destiny,
Infinite and true
Keep close my soul
To find always you...
Oh ever after
Ignite my starry wish
Beyond this mortal flesh

Oh heart
Oh soul
Oh heaven in my chest!
I love you still
(And always will)

Even unto death...
 Mar 2017
Butch Decatoria
After the preaching is

Done-finished picking at the scabs

Of our guilt,

At week's end / day of rest;

When we almost had it gone

Forgotten

From our minds...

It's a kinder kin to amnesia

A softer fog of fugue

A healing art of our brain farts,

Not soaking in shame's

Diminishment

Or stewing in self helps

"Deliver us!"          bow down genuflect

But then again

Here we are together to gather

Uncomplainingly

Complacently listening

Absorbing every lash

Of the metaphorical whip,

To be guided back to good

The sermon for the humans that we know

We are -- unworthy

But willingly we suffer

The word...

On how to be just like

The lamb...


So afterwards, when after we've been

Emotionally & verbally punctured

Full of hollow

We are holes unworthy

Of being

Made whole...


Or so, we've been told

It is written.


So then let us meet for homily

After King James harangues us

His version of fellowship,

Let us have verbal

******* with the word.

Perhaps over supping

Or during beer & NFL

Or some blood

Sport

Non-emasculating

Reminding us how

Weekends roar

And Life is

Worth more

Than the inner wars

We are ourselves

Fighting.

After the sermon,  

Let's have true verbal

*******.

(Without a shred of guilt.)
Inspired by Jason Clarke, after researching the word homily. Ty JC. Lol.
 Mar 2017
Butch Decatoria
I have found a means to numb myself

To remove what confounded heart is left

For if what remains of it should break

All meaning in my breath will melt and I pray

Nothing will matter but my rage and hatred

...and I suppose what remains of myself

Removed? I fear it is a monster with nothing

To prove... A one eyed thing, a furious storm,

Hell bent to return what pain given / laid to rest.

No love remains if the only gift left is death...
 Mar 2017
Butch Decatoria
I deal
with the Jerusalem jeers
brambles and boot heels upon the chest
because I choose to be
inside the sardine can nest
practice altars and fears

I choose toy guns
rather than the illusions
of ice-sculptures and invalid-love
or winded wishes' ruse
wasted weddings' bruise

I choose (by God's whistling whim
and peanut gallery)
The art
the crooked
the crime
because it crickets inside
where the sigh and cry begins
where the biohazard happiness ends

Because I choose
this cypress curse
my quiet drums
my moving museums
for steady love's
rapture roulette
you can bet

I choose whom
and why, how, and when
just because I can.
I deal
because self pity
serves an empty meal.
 Feb 2017
Butch Decatoria
Can't remember

the last time I made love,

not the quick unarmored ***

gasping in a Friday night urgency,

tearing off clothes

with tiger-teeth and monkey-hands

no, making love:

like a gentle wash cycle

of lips on shoulder and nape,

simple looks of consenting thirst,

gorgeous shape of muscles

sifting into one another

glued in a slow, deliberate,

delicious dance

no conspiracy

no ulterior motive

but to know each and every niche

the highways of sweat and skin...



Can't recall exactly the date

of that last time

but I remember who

and I know how,

still remember those heavy eyes...


these searching hands between my legs


hot breath on my neck,

****--how that had made me melt:

considerate fingers playing deep blues

on my side, of my ribs,

rapacious thirst of oceans

dissolving into my august body

discovering sensitive spots to linger wet,

his mouth, I remember

pink caucasian  smoothness whispering

more & more my name - such authority on the kiss


As we become Las Vegas

bright lights & heat waves

hunger no longer an ache or crutch

I can't remember precisely

that last time I've been touched,

when my heart & soul felt

so much,


but I still can remember

the last time

with whom I made

This, like that

Oh! and How!

He had me

melt...
edit 6/4/2016
 Feb 2017
Butch Decatoria
The impetus
Of being
      Always on the run
               Through pinwheel eyes
                              Those standing by
                                          The mystic roadway

                                     River

Blues yet to be brushed
                           or in blush
                           Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt

All mindful
And chockful O'
                          Wonder
Then ponder
           Yonder "window breaks"
                         Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
                             Umber earth

         Past the rush of liquid

Folding in itself / as a soundtrack
                         Listen
      Pedestrian be
Mindful
                   of the cautionary whales
                                                  Ahab's yell
                                  Obsessions
                           Fears
                      Or loathing

One's drowning in one's sleep

Look wildly widely
                              Blithely
                                    Down river
                     Or up there beyond finger's point
                                   Sidewinder snake journeys
                                                        Until sky and below it
                             All meet
The distance

Now only a line
                      Coalescing what is beyond        
   Our ability to see

               Far and away
Evanescent
         Effervescent
                     Ever after      
                             River. Life.
(Don't leave...)

Here
        We are now
                            The spirit fluent
        With the rapid rivers loud
                            Always on the run

Currents like a child's curiosity ...

When or why
                        does it end
                
Where do we go?
                    
Like most things existing,
           Will lead to the high art / love's deep oceans
          
We often forget to seek
                              And mind
                                     the sublimations ...
                                                            d­­riftwood.

So then,
Begin with a dot, a line
                     A speck of dusk
                     A burst of light
                                        A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
                   Raging fragility of water

Liquid undulations  
                    Folding itself in / volumes

Or falling from on high
                    A droplet cry

Then lightning
                   (crash or bloom)
From the heavens
                                       like electric rivers
So brilliantly
                   Festoons

Where do we go
       There and here / underfoot

                   Over north / southern sleep
                                   To oceans twilight deep

Go wrapped or map-less
Or no
            Up yonder

There up there
                       Everywhere
                                    All without fear

My heart like the river yearns
                 To go toward the sun

                       A flow / the beating drum
Always on the run...

And
           Yet
                   Still
                            Here.

                             ­                                                               
RIVER.
 Feb 2017
Butch Decatoria
I am full on wonder
from basking in the love
in your eyes
not knowing how to lie
or become hollow
looking down...

Let the bulls run past
Don't let that lightning flash
die
not your spirit into glass
In your eyes
I can feel   (at last)    forever...

with Love, together

I am full on wonder.


*Ask why can't I
be loved... like that - with all that
kind of thunder?
              too young yet for such loud hunger
  
stay fly cupid's child
don't go to older
                    hangrily mourning
not just yet  
relive your jet's / slow burn
if there's only one roll
it's your turn
               on the die -- just once I'd like
to see someone smile...

The mind of my youth
ain't afraid to die --quicksilver
                               
my lightning love is
deepest with your thunder

Listen to an old man...
stay young and get
                                 full on wonder.
 Jan 2017
Butch Decatoria
Just call me Fish-Sparrow
from atop ten mountains
the dream king of the fountain
guardian for the Light

I am the hermit hangman
balancing with butterfly wings
The Liger with dragon fire
Dancer of four thousand winds

I am yin to mother yang
the light and shadow's bane
the butcher and the lamb
reclaiming God's tears from Cain...

I am Magus, Gossamer prince
Eye of phoenix slayer of sphinx
Harbinger of goddess / kissed
the one who fell to transcend this

I am the clay you shape
the gift of future days
Buddha's peace / grandfather's tree
the secret sword & way

Fish-Sparrow Dream King
Eye of O, Bane of Ys
Lion whom slayed the serpent sphinx ;

to no one I am nothing

A simple poet for the Beloved
A new day's Spring.
I am tomorrow / her Lion king.
A spur of the moment spirit write / out comes the inner verse... take it for what it is, or image big the possibilities are endless...
 Jan 2017
Butch Decatoria
[PLOT

                 on the green / Cemetery Row]

A stroll

through Carthage stones...



Gargoyles in grey gloamings

of Autumns

of Winters

of the remains of days

the done-buried

keep secret in rigor mortis  

kiss



the grave

pushing up daisies, the cherished

our cherubs below tombstones

there lays

In green tarmac flights

On crucifix runways




Mausoleums with eyes

of pyramids and storms

house the ravens watching ghosts

from above just ants below,

beneath undulating cotton lakes

Upon the soil and worms and

souls


           mausoleums...


As granite angels mime

upward in prayer

waiting in the weight of the lifeless

wake

    white marbled expressions

consternation

    of devil may care

None for statues or halos

they're capture in boxes,

coffins / all inmates

                                The American gothic gallows


Caustic the silences

once stories of beams of light

Such lives afire

now mere half paragraphs

in respite /

In unforgiven mires


[On a plot of green

in cemetery row...]


Gargoyles in the mist

these arrested flights

of wish dismissed

of effulgent life


through the spindle of an hourglass

spider-webs of fog

where I share my path

Here the haunted besides (roaming)

a land of quietude

                 futures devoid yet still turning

The cyclic times

The unlearned

dreaded cold below


[On a plot of green, Cemetery row...]


Rest will happen

but my spirit is a phoenix

Great flocks of birds


Asphodels


Whilst

taking a stroll...

Past plots of green,

        In cemetery row


How such silences scream :

         the fallen :

death's blanket of snow.


[Carnage. &. Stone.]
My submission piece for Hellopoetry.com.
Could be considered a holloweeen kind of poem too....
 Jan 2017
Butch Decatoria
I make smiles from shattered eyes

cry December's distracting frost

move my soul with hopeful sighs

and pray our devotion is not lost



It is the eve of renewal's glee

gave sad promises to spoon the moon

but in the haste of glass we freeze

pose with strangers who fill our room



sweat bemoans my reaching hand

your eyes are vacant with his lust

he bids the hours by your command

we smoke our feelings into dust



this boy is weak yet worships you

opens darkest gates to breed

now enter light that stirs, confused

my tears to scream still go unseen



i am a wish of hearts refused,

the sound of fallen poetry...
 Dec 2016
Butch Decatoria
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...

A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."


She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...

I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...

Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-*******'s strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's

and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,

my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors  

we felt so much...
 Dec 2016
Butch Decatoria
They call him "Tweaker"

Those in the neighborhood of Spring Mountain

and Desert Inn, those who pace

the same streets and sleep in the same block.

He's ironic and contradictory,

calling everyone he happens

by "Slim"

his emasciated smile

black potholes and pyrite

is as genuine as his intentions

shaming traffic with his sadness

cardboard paper signs

"Just trying to get something to eat"

There should be a question mark

My exclamation point

No excuse not to give...

So here you are "slim" collecting the guilt

All the dollars a day in your concrete quilt

and your own red Target  

shopping cart...


Caught red handed behind 7-11

In the alley (cats avoid)

with a dub, a dime, or nickle sac

god smacked...

carrying conversations

With / a / no one...
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