They were born,
(though that fact will be widely contested by historians for approx. 75 years)
in the primordial tidepool,
of heavy-set indigo potion made,
by a man who,
never touched them directly.
This, supposedly happened in the alley behind your house,
and doing as a youth does,
you dried them off,
with the bottom of your Lakers tee,
which would leave an ashy mark that even your mom couldn't get out.
They were precious
in your hand.
Then you settled on a name
because the assumption most conclude from
what was retold is,
that they did not know/want/deserve a name of their own.
They lived, like most wake up.
A video of a feather falling,
chopped, screwed, and played in reverse.
They bit their nails down to the nub,
pink, something quietly went missing,
but ultimately sent the
message that there was no part of them
they wouldn't destroy
for your comfort.
The discourse around this subject is as follows:
The Body: Senate, Forum, Public Inquiry.
The Stands: Crowds, the people and their participation, The Ire.
The Debate: Human-Performance (now 18 years running).
Where the issue arises is during the event the performer was seized and stabbed 23 times to their inevitable (contestable) death.
They were born again,
into the same soup, which as the story goes
leads to the same circumstances and sub-
sequently the same outcomes.
It will be another 23 year before they have a successful run,
yet they float up,
headache surfacing a red breath of
and what is still unknown is whether,
they died at all.
I flung myself in a sudden reckless abandon
Strung myself with every willing person
Drenched in lust for a quick action
Needing the rush to feel a sensation
The thrill of seeking hearts
The feel of touching parts
Needing to find my own inspiration
By the way of candied prostitution
Needing to find the right heat
Grinding to find the right beat
Seasoned with the salty tears of fame
Glazed in bitter-sweet laughs of shame.
This syrupy tongue who went through mouths
These amber sapped eyes taking away doubt
This dripping voice who tells sweet acid lies
Behind the truth of cheating everyone else denies
For one such person is ready to give
As much as he is ready to recieve
The poisoned berries of adultery and sin
Like the flaming desire of someone from within
For what makes someone who yearns
Find love in dizzying patterns
So broken and loss with none to please
One who just wanted to find aching release
Like pages in a story,
one that I'll never read.
Staring at the ceiling wondering-
Why wasn't it to be?
Traversing the wastelands of one's own mind,
wading through the guilt,
and always out of time.
There's too much pressure...
Nothing you can say could hurt me more than I,
For, I am my own Enemy.
I am the Last Demon that shall die.
Surrounding voices with no voices heard,
only saddened faces,
empty mouths that speak a melancholy word.
A new friend, A new face.
Now, they're gone...
Another rat race.
I'll lay here, with this pen in my hand.
Stuck in gaze... Wondering,
who... Who was that man?
It was I, who I had seen.
Back in a time of Joy,
before I knew what real pain means.
Perhaps, I'll see you again one day.
When I finally give in...
When, on a cloud, I'll float away.
I have let my inbox fill,
Let my hair grow long,
And moved the cup that collected my life
That constantly ranneth over
Spilling drops to the ground
To the side temporarily
So a deeper vessel could be found.
But I'm not worried -
I'll be around.
You were laying in a bathtub
And all they did was wash you.
You were alone.
Bruised toes hanging of out the white porcelain.
Your hair, damp and thick with mildew, dripped off my fingers.
And you were alone.
All they did was wash you.
Blue lips, puckered as if to say your final speech
That everyone around you left you alone,
Until the only one left to find you,