Gandhi once said,
"Your Christians are so unlike your Christ"
or something to that effect.
He was right.
If god was real why would he not avert his eyes?
As we maimed and ***** and slaughtered,
for the seven hundredth time.
Human beings were broken from the start.
First we killed with sticks and stones,
then transformed warfare into art.
A bitter joke indeed.
Cavernous capacity for compassion competes
with the inner beast.
Rapid acceleration  towards the exit,
planet's just gaspin' it's last breathes, death rattle.
Perpetuated by laws of desperate escalation,
accessible weapons outweigh the estimation.
Lack of communication marks the end, tower of babel.

The crickets,
sing of nothing.
While,
the stars watch,
in equitable silence.
I,
think of screaming,
my rejection,
to the sparkling void.
Cigarette smoke,
pirouettes,
in the wind.
Grace.
It all means nothing.
Clouds consume,
the scenery.
Rain,
drowns the music.
So it goes.

I'm not addicted,
liquor's just the fittest liquid
to sift through the litany
of **** my mind whips
into existence.
Aids in grippin
the intricate specifics
among twisted images
that slip from
simply cryptic to mystic.
It's not *******,
just simple statistics,
the rhyming gets better
when drinkings prolific.

I don't know what it's like,
to rise above it all.
Only, the feeling in your gut,
when one begins to fall.
And I couldn't speak a word,
on peace, serenity.
But I can tell a thousand tales,
of woe and misery.
If the gutter held a vote,
the king, would I be crowned.
So tell me things are looking up,
I'll show you the way down.

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

she
is what she is meant to be,
she is the sensuality
of her femininity,
she
seeks beauty in all
she sees,
her essence is complex simplicity,
she
is contradictory,
she is all
that's satisfactory,
in her days
and in her dreams,
she
is lovely,
loving me,
she
is everything,
woman,
perfectly
a precious, priceless,
part of
me
that is
she.
_
Femininity
http://beautyineverything.com/4618419981

You smile and laugh,
Lightness incarnate.
I think about corrupting you.
I want to feel your skin sweat under my fingers, 
Watch your muscles clench.
I'd **** to bring a moan out of you,
Die to hear a grunt.
I want to taste your hostility,
Heated and ashamed.
I will rip your evil forth.
To see it spill through you,
Oh.
I bite my lip.
The levees are cracking,
I can see it in your eyes.

So brightly her flame burns for me,
and no one can hold a candle to it.
When she says my name I only seem
to be less and less able to handle it.

Yet still she bathes me in white hot light
and I am relentlessly pulled closer.
Like fascinated moths on a summer's night
stuck inside of a streetlight enclosure.  

I was upon her fire, cast deep into that flame,
illuminated from my old soul to the tip of my brain.

When out stretched for miles my shadow became,
everything I've put behind me, now swaddled in shame.

Out, she reaches,
to touch my hand.
But I'm all dried up
and turned to sand.

In, she breathes, all of those
ridiculously stinky green ounces.
And now I'm lost, I suppose,
in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Were I only a critter
then maybe I could've stayed with her,

forever trapped in a locket
or suffocating deep inside of her pocket.