Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.

Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.

The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?

A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,

a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.

Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover

and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.

15.5.2015

now don't get me wrong
i love wordsmiths
semiotic story-tellers
rhapsodists rhythmically reciting
love languages from memory
connecting disparate lines
between discordant thoughts like
gods breathing life into dust

for these steel swords we've
conjured up do not rust
nor do they cut flesh

with mouths like ink fountains
we espouse words at the whims
of pens that often seem possessed
of their own volition and
we are their mere harbingers

they slice to the quick
past bone and marrow to
the human spirit and
tap into sentience through
sophisticated sentence structure
measured meter catalyzing cadences
of consonance in confidence

so by all means
spit rhymes and chime in
on current events
i love the rally cries
that seek to stymy injustice
ridicule bigotry and
foment dissent

but don't preach at me
your words of salvation
fall on deaf ears
you cannot save me
because i'm already divine
one-of-a-kind
just like you

i don't fancy myself above
satirizing fictitious and megalomaniacal
depictions of godhood
i've found that humor
helps us navigate the
half-truths and veiled threats
that inundate our daily existence
regardless of whether
they originate from
preachers politicians pundits
or poets

****-shaming and victim-blaming
are pathetic attempts to cull dull minds
no thanks mine's full to the bursting
you think you're clever for slapping
together a couple of words brewed
for maximum effect but you haven't
got the faintest clue do you no

you're nothing but a bully with a pulpit
fearmongering and shouting damnation
mixing Church and State and business
in a trifecta of tyranny
an orgastic oligarchy
of eternal enmity

when we die we pass
into the black abyss of nothingness
each of us a blip on the spectrum of
life under constant duress
before we ultimately perish
a meaningless speck of dust on
an endless shore of who was
who is and who will come to be

this is not a nihilistic proclamation
nor an atheistic defamation of
human beings but a rational
refutation of misanthropy
masquerading as community

your love looks a lot like hatred

i seek to offer an alternative
to the endless cycles of
condemnation that sprout from
the pages of holy books
like gnarled trees bequeathed
unto us by the seeds
of false prophecies

let's face the music
we will all die alone
and there is nothing
and no one
waiting for us
no white light or
loved ones on
the other side
no arbiter of fate
waiting at the gate
to permit us entrance
to a heavenly place

if we could only muster the courage
to divorce ourselves from fatalistic
fantasies of the afterlife
that keep us bent-kneed
we might find within us the strength
to seize the day and
live life so brilliantly that

we'd create a heaven on earth
if merely we departed from the
hellish impulses that divide us
into despondent collections of
self-righteous hypocrites and
simply admit the only thing we
know for certain is that we
know nothing for certain at all

perhaps then we could salvage
a modicum of freedom from
the wreckage of shattered
egos and emaciated lies
that plague this planet
with circumstantial evidence
while relegating our liberty
and inhibiting conscience

in the spirit of free inquiry
then let us question
everyone and everything
starting with yours truly

pasty white ghosts haunt
the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa
whispering wisps of smoke
shimmering shadows of the past
setting the pace for the rat race
that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election

senators billionaires doctors
frauds liars fools
campaigning for selection in an
archaic and outdated
form of governance

witness the spectacle
the orgastic worship
of solipsistic oligarchs
bloated by their own
sycophantic rhetoric

it's just another form
of all-American
entertainment

each orator's charismatic adage
froths forth from a
throat like a grave
pragmatism throttles hope
as we stoke the fires of
self-indulgence and neglect
the fact that we acquiesced
as another deceiver stole votes

we're choking on placebo pills
every ballot cast is another act of apathy
escapism pleading vainly for a
savior to rescue our sick society but
these hands didn't evolve so we could
collect a representative to lead us
blindly into one fiasco after another

these fingers penned  
humanity's symphonies and
these calloused palms have
toiled for years under an apathetic sun
we learned to make love
using our fingertips and
with these fists
we could chart a new path
but only if we raise them in
defiance

our only chance is leaderless resistance

pearls of sweat swell on bodies golden
at the dancing heart of pagan Rome;
orgastic stares and touches molten
light the synesthesia pleasuredome.

the gods eat diamonds from the grapevine
while virgins undress their silken shame;
red-faces boast as blood turns to wine:
tonight roam ***** tongues without name.

nymphs hold cornucopia spirits high;
they all hover inches from the ground,
spraying the mob to dew ev'ry eye;
endless voices converge to one sound.

ambrosia, the food of the divine,
is nothing but mortal invention:
to think of pleasure is to make it mine,
all of us in bubbled imagination.

To Speak of the Future....

Conor Blatchford:
The future isn't clear,
Don't assume failure is near
For the future is uncertain
So to speak, an Iron Curtain

Hidden agenda:
The question was 'To be or not to be?'
Even Shakespeare had a glimpse of doubt ,
For when he wrote a word of sea,
He always found a way to swim out.

So me calling myself a failure is a premonition,
On a future event so far in the distance,
That if I did succeed it would be a mere addition.
To lose is to win in such a cruel existence.

Example if your claiming victory,
Should you achieve it , you may bask in glory.
Yet if you don't achieve it, you have failed.
Then that would have been ship set sailed.

Conor Blatchford:
Ship set sailed it may be,
But failure remains unclear to see
No matter how hard ones tries,
Future sight-seeing is usually lies

Usually

Hidden agenda:
The green light is dimming and the orgastic future is gone,
Yet I still stretch my arms and carry on.
Simple as is , I know a failure to be made,
But I'm still working in hopes of getting paid.

Conor Blatchford:
Failure is always destined to be,
Yet mostly
Impossible to see

You wish to be paid from your mistake?
The only thing failure can rake
Is misery; emotion's most deadly snake

A snake with fangs
That does bite
Whence you give in
To this devilish sprite

You will lose
All you had
And never gain
What you desire so bad

If failure is certain,
Then so to is victory
Yet both continually
Elude me
This is the future
That I think I see

Gatsby's green light was orgastic, unreachable,
distant.
              Mine is a little dot on my chat screen,
also green;

your being in some corner of reality
that, perhaps, is also

                                   looking for stories,
  looking for me.

‪i think of you late at night,‬
‪in between grasps and gasps‬
‪of thighs that are beneath me‬
‪and they held me tight, secure‬

‪until the still of your reflections‬
‪are blurred by the orgastic current‬

‪and i sat still as a stone,‬
‪unturned‬
‪to the revelries of you‬
‪to a memory bygone‬
‪and i close my eyes‬
‪to a tomorrow where you don’t belong‬

I am within
and with doubt
Corners merely cornered
Meters running out
Here, at last a moment,
a moment's last-
ing (re)doubt

Hinted on skin,
Winter wind,
Chills beget our watching
Of the time we passed through
Not assuming, simply tasting
The salty savory tense that was,
and felt,
and left for now
Where we dreamed the stuff of man
Kindly holding us in time's embrace

Though behind as we bear on,
An orgastic collision, a circumstance,
It is so undeniable and warm,
The time we passed through

In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
but the only one you wanted to see was her
“Can’t repeat the past? Why...of course you can!”
and so you did.
or at least attempted too.
but it didn’t work for you
now did it,
old sport?
because the harder you tried to
keep up this game
the more they rewrote the rules
“they’re a rotten crowd” I shouted across the lawn. “you’re worth the whole **** bunch put together!”

you fell in love with the girl
whose voice was full of money
in the valley of ashes.
looked at her the way every young girl wants to be looked at
a beautiful little fool, she was
perfect for you

afternoon tea
silk shirts stained by her tears
your resurrection
was born.
or so you thought.

you were endlessly
attempting to recreate
a  sequel to that summer night in 1945
the kiss
the sky
that night.

your death was almost heroic
only you and I know
you were doomed from the start
“gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...and one fine morning- so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

illusion festers at the
altar of apathy we
sacrifice our intellect
for luxury items
woe-filled slaves chained
to hypocrisy

if this is what grows in the
absence of thought—weeds
spread out to choke all semblance
of hope—sew my eyelids to my scalp
i'll sleep no more no nightmare
is more terrible than this
reality we must endure

stretched out across this wasteland
we built temples to worship
finance bathed in our own arrogance
we fancied ourselves gods through
deicide and accepted the
inheritance that gave us such a throne

measure out the violence in Biblical
proportions spread like fire
to every corner of the globe
cover the map in a sea of
ash and smoke white phosphorous
raining from the sky like manna
on all the forgotten children
anguishing in third-world exile

we are the arbiters of our own demise
drunken bloated ignorant harbingers
reviled for our revelry of orgastic negativity
plunging the Earth into the sixth
extinction that surely spells
the end of our finite kind

some sentient race may yet witness
our only home caught in the
death-grip of its sole intellectual organism
as life ebbs from her lonely pale blue eyes
winking in and out of existence
from hundreds of lightyears far far away

no telling whether such a recollection
viewed through the chasm of space-time
might offer a mirror to some species
possessed of less self-destructive
tendencies devoid of suicidal mentalities
a warning sign to all the legions spread
across the galaxy:

do not follow in our footsteps

A puff of curiosity withdraws
Bewilderment out of my lung.
Though, quick to become my amusement,
I’m lead into an orgastic pleasure.  

A dose of you completely fills the void
Within the brachial branches of my lung.  
The naivety within me pleasantly
Accepts the corruption that you pose.

A dose of you is now my daily diet
That fuels every precipice of the
Body to its functioning capability.
Minutes without - not tolerated
By the deepest yearning for
A puff of obsession to you.

You are the full moon in my starless night
As I look for the light lost on the way to my safe keep

You are the tender whispering among the sharp laughters of mockery that grips my soul so softly and loudly

You are the warm tears rolling down my wintry cheeks I kept bare so long and
So numbly

You are the intoxicating reverie in my tumultuously violent and destructive thoughts oceans deep

You are the warm cup of tea
I hold in my stubborn hands as I freeze in the cold running to thee

You are
You are...

You are all that I wanted to keep  
Everlastingly

But only come once in awhile so
Unexpectedly

Still,  I grip onto you tightly
In shattering broken pieces

Just so I can be drenched in those orgastic moments bare and
Completely