Cast out the chorus
that tell of dreams
of a life fulfilled
restricted
and less

Naked
I feel it
on my skin
the freedom to enjoy
myself

No fears
No judgements
No hidden spirits
tormenting my existence
to tell me lies
and divide

Lets abandon this
sail on flying ships
hedonistic
feverish

be the me
I see in my dreams
the animal
the master
Goddess incarnate

Brown-tanned, and muscular
he leans against the wall  at
Senior Frogs, down on the tip
of the Yucatan, at the edge
of Cancun.

She is mad-- the rich-girl,  
college hottie.. who takes
the time out from her dancing
somewhere near the front of
the stage, and sultries over
with her best instagram-sashay
she could put together.

     "Everyone is looking at me but you"

Mhmm.. and take another chug of my Patrón.

     "What. You think you're too good for me?
     You've probably got old *****, anyways.."

And in an instant, I ***** slap
the whining little ****-boy
she calls a boyfriend

and then
**** the ever-loving dogshit  out of her
against the side of the stage--
the whole time, thinking about
how much more substance
a two-pump hit from a bottle of
Jergens and a quality **** vid
would bring  me

As back against that old wall
I stand.. enjoying the show.

She is staring at me now

no doubt,  she'll be bugging me
the whole rest of my trip.
Her friends come traipsing my way
because that's what friends do--
They become mesmerized..
and then  fixated-- wanting to ****
the guy their friends want to ****.
.

There is a Pharmacia on the corner
on my lone taxi ride back to the hotel.
Sergio pulls over, and I walk in...

The Jergens is near the back--
right next to my favorite Patrón.

what is there to life but
pleasure

like smoke sweet and thick
in my lungs,
fruitful wine that graces my tongue and
twirls my mind, laughter
and friendship that fill my evenings
and apartment,
dancing without a care to ryhthms and lovers
with soft lips and solid bodies

hr.

What remains in the aftermath of love?

As streets are built without sidewalks
As neighborhoods no longer have use for streetlights

As parks and sunsets turn into myths
As the stories of lies and deceit become the only nursery rhymes we pass on

As *** becomes as mundane as eating bread
And ****** become larger and more frequent than church communions

As ***** become cheaper than blood

As faces become so interchangeable they're impossible to remember
And names turn into secrets

What remains?
When everywhere is no man's land

When childbearing is just a rare, yet escapable punishment from God

When children migrate in swarms between families like birds escaping winter

When love is just but a militarized weapon used for enslavement

When humanity is emancipated from their emotions

Shall we celebrate our independence by clearing our contacts list and changing numbers?

Shall we start each new year by picking a new stranger to stave off our hunger for the night

When we stone those who learned each other's middle names

When we lock away anyone greedy enough to keep someone to themselves
And the married are sent to live in the madhouse

When the war of love have ended
And no one's heart returns home

What remains?

I've been still,
Caught in a sweet stasis,
Buried under the same, baseless
Candied gags, slippery hags, body bags ー
But I can't go back.
Haven't moved forward either,
So I still sit silent here.
Maybe I'll someday wither ー

Like dandelions as they scatter in the wind,
I will feel no more the weight of societal sins.
Staying awake in anticipation;
That feeling you get when you see a road blocked
and a wrecked car hoping it was an accident
Eventful; excitement to see that tar black
Crimson on tarmac
and those trampled, broken-pretty shells ー

I want to be a doll.
A pretty hollow pale porcelain
you still can't hurt when I slip through your hands,
Or when you let go and drop me,
Or smash me into the ground ー
It's all the same, isn't it?
You buy, bore, break, blame, build, rebuild
Rebreak, reblame, replace...

I remake real-fake love into stanza-sized stories
Just to rebrand them as poetry;
A molded part to inspire some abstract art.
They're better off that way,
Locked in and stationary;
Sweet standstill sanctuary.
And I'll stay to watch their models fail and break,
As they too, disintegrate ー fellow ******* degenerates

This time I was at your disposal,
But we're all just glorified disposables ー
Ever-hungry, hedonistic at heart.

The most rhymed word
In the poetry world is
Me.
That reveals volumes about
Us.

Chase the chaos
embrace it
wrap both thighs around it
until it screams a name you recognise
and replies
with rhythmic fury
coursing through the contortions
spinning on carousels of shame and regret.