on nights like this, hell, most nights
the cost is far too unbearable, it breaks the bank
breaks the soul too
the thought of waking again,
starting anew, rings absurd and distant like a land
too far and fair to be true
night wraps gently around me
both negligee and noose, swaddling, suffocating
what life is left
how long? how long will I wait?
bespoke bereft, i know. i did it all to myself.
pain into pride slowly crept
sure, my eyes will close and i
will drift down into the blaze-blue blackness of my mind
whereupon lurks
some peace. a lulling void left
alone, mine, free of each trial and terror laid as
a trap, intended to bind.
no ball or chain. an anklet
will do. reminds me of the ever-presence of you.
yet you’re not here.
daylight begins to break through
night disappears, void dispersing. with each, my concerns
too. out I go, fearless now
So suave So stoic So strong
Confident in the natural order and My place
til i feel it
again, ethereal
but there and so **** heavy
an anklet. yours.
i can’t pay for it anymore.

in the light of day
your appeal is lost but the
evenings give it back.

i look at it this way, i said
we are sailors and our bodies are our ships
relationships are the riggings, the sails, the sextet
and love. love in particular is the anchor
it can keep us grounded in tumultuous times,
help us correct our paths more quickly,
stabilize our journeys, and allow us the choice of sea or port.
but when it's a bad match for our vessel,
it holds us back, limits our freedom,
damages our vessel, and drowns us.

indeed, part of determining that is learning and experimental.
learning how to use the anchor,
when it is appropriate to drop
and when it must be raised.
but the anchor itself is not inherently good or bad.
either fit or experience makes it useful or useless

that's beautiful, she said
where have you been all my life?

i paused.
i have been lost at sea
what seemed like eons
learning to sail
and where to anchor.

“You’ll never get in. You just can’t. You don’t understand.”,
she says. in this, i can’t help but hear that constant chorus.
she sobs softly in a room i can’t open; door locked.
she can’t help herself. she always cries in the morning.
i can’t believe she’s the same person as in the evening before;
in fishnets and spike heels, vying for attention, can’t take no,
no, won’t take no as an answer. in fact, i can’t take no
so well myself. in a growing rage, i can’t hold back.
can’t stand this helplessness in my own home.
i try to get in with a slam and a kick but can’t.
she sounds out louder in fear, can’t help herself.
in-side, i burn angrily at the sound. i can’t stand it;
can’t shake it, like a potlid in the throes of boil.
it’s strange. in my mind, i can’t remember how it
started. in memories, we can’t keep our hands to
ourselves, intwined at the hip and mouth, can’t stop
or don’t want to. in reality, i guess we still can’t,
though i can’t say it’s in the same ways. well,
i get in. she can’t hold back her sullen tears.
she can’t hide the hints in last night’s stockings,
torn into large holes. i can’t help but growl and
she can’t help but weep heavily in that old, familiar
way. and so now, we can’t stop it. it’s in motion.
the ritual complete. can’t help that, in each other,
we summon the worst.

i look upon the dregs of a young man's youth misspent
and out upon the broken parts of hearts he was lent.
every one pristine before he lay hands upon it
twisting love of women to lust to hate
and where all the flames of passion were lit
his insecurities were keenly hit
to which his only tactic was to abate,
downplay, decrease, discount and more
he found the reasons needed in the lore
of days long past. the kindly ladies demur.

days and days go by and he could still only lie
to himself to ease his stress and pain
and hunt once more for hearts to strain
with lures in words and faultless face,
a self imposed long haltless race
to sieve their affect through enclawed hands
and
and yet
and yet he knows not why he stands
or sits
or speaks
or sings of love
when clearly he knows nothing of its austere offices
he knows only hunger for the heat of an embrace
the clasp of another hand
telling himself that life will follow with fences of white and broods and rings and gardens and windows and light, ohsweetgodlight
but he is blind.
there is light but he does not see.
each and every one does hold a key
to life and fence and broods and such.
his burdens must appear too much
to hand to others and so he flees
to hide in shadows and lament the passing
of another life. the kindly ladies demur.

and now. there is only nothing and no one to blame
but the arrogance of youth and the youth itself.
crying out with fist clenched tight
why oh why. this can't be right.
it is oh it is. you know full well
that each and every one was bright
and, for you, another light.
and yet you chose to bask in hell.
so drop the act and take your nails.
the wounds will heal, you stupid knave.
open your ears and shroud the mind.
when you do, i think you'll find
that when the women stand speak,
it's not words for sake of words
or just so that they can be heard
but because you think you know too much
and they love you more than you yourself.
a kindly lady demurs.