You are a victim.
A victim of your vices
giving into everything that entices.
That leaves your heart
colder than ice is.
Your actions are the worst,
but I can't blame you.
You are just a victim.
A victim of the thirst.

Your flesh is weak
but you know that.
You can't help yourself
So you don't fall back.
No attention at home
Makes you feel all alone
and your soul is crying
for some contact.
So you scroll through
all of your contacts.
Wondering who just might
call you back
As your mind paces
back and forward.
The thirst begins
to call on you
and that is when
you follow through.

You have fallen.
You have fallen.
You have fallen victim.
Victim to the thirst
and with all of your worth
you have become
the worst.

The thirst of lust.
The thirst of lust
and the sin of vanity
has influenced
Your latest calamity.
That will become the cancer
that will eat away
at your very sanity.
Until all you have left
Is the thought
of your conformity
to the community
of the heartless.
Body, mind, soul,
Bound by your effects causes.

You are a victim.
A victim of your vices
giving into everything that entices.
That leaves your heart
colder than ice is.
Your actions are the worst,
but I can't blame you.
You are just a victim.
A victim of the thirst.
and with all of your worth
you have become the worst.

rid of "I"
free.
let your
e
g
o
go
or
vanish in
vanity.

Sit all day, lie and close your eyes
As if the sun did not rise,
You simply snuggle deeper into your bed.
Comfort and warmth reaching deep
bringing to a simmer all fantasies
a steaming broth, concoction of lies.

Without thought, in utter disinterest,
You regard effort with contempt
As if yours was a clean silver slate
Handed down from above
Or was it because you had a good mind?
Too good for the task

There later came, as was bound to
The reckoning. account giving
Why was the day the only day you thought to awake?

.
In mid airs, dimly,
The ****** birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                           
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.

.
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.

Paper casted with doubts on intrepid limbs,
Bleak as the innocent page is scribed black,
For all crowned hands have writ but whim,
To this, their epitaphs reign what pages lack.

Just how important do we
imagine ourselves to be?

Maybe not so much
as we would like to think.

Perhaps we are merely quirks
of sexuality and history.

Does that bruise our egos?
Who would we be if our
parents had never met.

The Moirae spin our fates
which hang on feeble threads;
the fragilest of continuities
bind us to this world
of brutality and beauty.

Yet we count our money
as if it were steel cable,
proof against rust forever;

we fight our wars as though
something noble and eternal
depends upon their outcomes;

we pretend we are playwrites
instead of actors reading lines.

Vanity of vanities.

In error, we drive ourselves
to beat hard against the wind,
headlong against time and death
as if we are actually steering.

Until the Day we must look
the Tiger in the eye and know,
too late, in that certain fatal second,
that we are small and weak
and mortal and always have been.

And the earth closes over us.