Grave Thoughts

The walls, the trees
The sky and the wind...
Everything whispers not to forget.
There once was a child born,
And nothing has been the same since
For any of us
All parents inside, willing
Or kicking and screaming into maturity.

Crystalline
Understanding:
The future is wide open.
A smattering of humor
Laced with insecticide,
Breakfast.
That is the good news.

The day began properly,
Filled with the nervous sense of
Uh-oh.

Fingers touched
And lips met.
Just as prophesied
The stars eclipsed the sky,
And no one cares why.

Seclusion
The sting of the recluse,
The festering open sore
That is loneliness:
Call it unsatisfied desires.

We all get what we want.
Too far.
Just how far
Would that be?
When what you want is not
What you want.

Couldn't there be further?
Beauty
Languishes
In the basement
Chained up by pointlessness.

Broken glass and razor blades
Make such wonderful toys
For all the good little girls and boys.

Play with me, cut your self.
The pain fades.

Skin peels away from the small corpses
So much easier than from
The big ones.

The tiny legs and dainty paws
Once so alive,
To grasp,
To run and leap,
Scraps on the chopping block.

In the forest a hollow resonates,
Vines cling like the arms of jilted lovers,
And the hidden life
Despises that which they see
In this thing, man
(despises and fears).

This is no pale faced prairie boy.
This is the hard savage from the frozen waste.
Prairie boy looks like a light snack.
This is not the repressed Christian
Who described the white whale,
Nor the honest one who masked the priest's face.

I AM: the harbinger
Of a new way.

Envision
Total
Freedom.
Envision
Total
Evil
Now make them Fight

Somehow words
Became children's games,
In a world devoid of contact
Under houses
Playing in the dust
With a little black dog
Named Bo

As a child my
Dangerous games
Were always the most fun.

Mystery becomes angry
When too many secrets become clear.

A paltry hint,
A brief clue,
Nothing frightens the true.
The earth mother sleeps,
Safe in the arms of Pregnancy.

The father could not swallow the child.
A stone wrapped in swaddling clothes
Guarded the fruit of Rhea's loins.
And so the father groaned,
Thwarted.

The child could not be eaten,
Such the legacy of Cronus,
Doomed to face defeat
At the hands of his own son.
Pater
Mors
Even in death
Gender contradiction
Enlightenment,
Oh, mass confusion
and misguided vocabulary.
Never fear, young one that you were,
The bugaboo only seeks to frighten
So that he will be left alone.

Transparency...
A difficult curse to shake.
Even devils once had a soul.

The lessers lost favor
For foolish pursuits.
Imagine sacrificing eternity in heaven
Because your wings would look better
Polka dotted.

Pretend for a second
Everything you were taught is true.
Funny, isn't it?
Imagine now
That it was all lies.
Don't be at a loss for words.
Nothing
Changed.

God is a feeling,
A warm, fuzzy cathexis.
Faith be far from unbelievers
And believers can't give theirs away.

Words
Are Not As Safe
As They Once Were.

Quiet

Hush

The web has ears,
Floppy rabbit ears.
Lagomorpha prowls for his doe.

No images reach this place
Where consciousness
Battles doubt
And finds
Emptiness.
Nothing.

No finger ever reached out
To touch the hand of God
Deus noumenon
Inside
Nowhere else

Console yourself.
There is one chance.
Embrace the truth.
Embrace that which you know to be certain.

Ne plus ultra
Forever routs
Vacuity.

How could stupidity
Ever win anything?
Amentia
By definition
Must be discomfited.
Donne datum.
Sheer ignorance is different.
The greatest defense
For five billion lost souls:
They were neophytes,
One and all.
N'est-ce pas?

Forever
Now
That
Is a
BIG
Idea.

Adonai
The Word Made Flesh
The beginning and the end
And all in between
Know Him
Know eternity
Chew on this gasconade,
The words are their own accolade.

Oh ye of little knowledge,
Thank the Lord for those with educations
And experience.

Did you ever stop to think
That I am not the problem,
But that maybe it is your own ignorance?

Go, go, go
Boy got an ego.

Enough small talk.
Got a life?
Got an inkling?
Something special that makes the difference?
Don't be too shy to share.
It's not art.
It's heresy, hypocrisy,
Dastardly...
Just plain filth.

Easy now
don't upset the bottom feeder
you know how testy poets can be

Once a vision of grandeur,
Free beneath the moon,
One of God's stateliest creatures,
Regal and above all criticism.
Since its beauty first met my gaze
Its rack of a dozen fleches
I have wanted the venery of the beast,
So that it's musty meat could grace
My lusty Christmas feast.

Simple creatures
Consternate the judgmental.
Judgments of the mundane
Over-shoot the mark
Through analytical
Over-complication.

The simplest plans
Offer the least chance of failure.
Carnivore
Meat
Food
Simple enough?

Fear?
Loathing?
A Mr. H. S. Thompson?
No, wait
The things I expect from
My audience.
That's why you came,
Right?
To hate,
To abhor.

Please tell me
You don't want to curl
Round the feet of insanity,
And wait for supper's
Delicious treats,
Hand fed.

My pet, my sweet.
Succor me.
Nothing else will suffice.
Your maculate touch
Brings my dead nerves
To life.

I want you,
More now than I ever
Have before.
The Paphian purse
My favorite ingredient for every concoction.
The flavor lasts and lasts.
The mystique in the shapes and the meanings
Find no parallel beneath the sun,
Hurtful
Burning entity that the sun may be.
Shame flounders in the shallows.
The promise of youthful flesh
Drew the predator in close,
But confidence and surety
Beached the great hunter.
I feel no shame.
The only beauty left
For the old and grisly
Resides in the forbidden
Untouchable sanctuary
Of the mature yet to lose innocence.

I exist at cross purposes
With the objects of my desire.
The immaculate are disgusted by the sight
Of one so hardened by the world.
Granted a new lease on life,
All infatuation aside,
Every breath tastes so good,
And all the nectar sweet.
This is not the man-boy
Anything.

What sick, twisted games...
I hope you didn't think...
Nevermind,
It's written all over your
Faces.

Once seen
The evil
Is impossible to
Un-see.

Preference:
The evil is a joke.
The badness
Is quaint,
Yet trite.

Hunger for unconversant flesh
Plagues
The immortal.

Death?
Soon?
Please?

Conscience
Damns
The insecure.

Damnation:
Only a cold, lonely place
Where nothing living moves
Or breathes.

Once breached
The shakes
And the shivers
Keep all too close
Companionship.

The journey to warmth
Can only happen
When love oversees.

No life
Without Love.

No thought
Finds safety in hatred.

No existence
Will become eternal
Without embracing
That which is intelligent,
Simple,
And unfailing.

Love:
So simple
But so complicated.

Master of cliches
I beg you,
Make me free.

Silence
Is
Golden.
Hush my mouth.
It's all crazy talk.
Shut my face.
Ignorant.
Retarded.

Silence
Is
Golden,
And I
Should have been a pair of ragged...
Thoughts...

Reference?
Seas of golden goodness.
Nothing like golden showers,
Baths of acidic lust
Tempered by sheer primordial
Thirst.

Dare spoken word
Compromise
The stronghold of perversion?

Unleash the wolf
For He has grown mightlily hungry
For the blood of infants.

Tender baby flesh
Offers the path of least resistance
To the fangs of hardened
Savagery.

Jesus knows.
Just how good
Babies taste
For in Him
All is realized,
Even
A weakness
For infant flesh.

Words
Play
Dangerous
Games.

Guard your young.

The mere mention
Of shiny coriaceous dress,
Or the snake caressing Beauty on a spancel,
Brings
Blood
To
Boil.
Even at the molecular level.

Embarrassed?
Shiver me timbers...
I like that.

My affection is the same
For sheer wigglers sticking out of
Strict chaussure,
Worshipped
By the mouths
Of groveling subhumans.

Censure me.
I laugh.
Pathetic dogmatics.
You amuse me.

I wonder what the taste
Of cock-strong
Would do to your interpretation.

Somewhere along the way
Simple became biological
And my hormones woke up
To want...

If only biology
Could explain
This unholy
Quest.

Want for the
Layers
Beneath
The folds,
Want for unbridled concupiscence.
The good little guy
Has gone.
Replaced
By the big bad
Harvester
Of must have.

Must have it.

So perfect,
So right,
Must have it!

Rational thought replaced
By sight,
Touch,
And Technique.

Must Have IT!

The caress
So deep inside
Hold on!

Still here...
So fine,
Still female,
Still happy with you,
Take me!

It won't be like taking
An unwilling victim.

WANT!

So strong,
So wanton,
Want one,
Want it!

Go figure.
Honesty.

Behold!
The truth will open doors...
Now what was that
That was so important
For the world to know?

It must have been this.
There is nothing more important
Than animal attraction.
Mankind exists
For no other reason.

Why don't you show me
Where I went wrong,
And
While you're at it
Show me how
Humans
Aren't like that,
Just to entertain me,
Because I already know
How right I am.

Choke on it.
You are an animal,
No matter how you deny.
So Am I!

You Are Not Alone!
Cry out not to emptiness!
Cry out!
I hear you!
I love!
I love you!
I love everyone!
Love is the key!
Love!
Love become reality!
Blessed Be!
LOVE!











[Notes: The lines about eating babies, which occur in a bunch of places in my poetry, are all references to wartime propaganda of the past. Enemies were very often described to the populace as baby eaters. There were often graphic descriptions accompanying those claims to prove just how evil the opposing side really was. This was propaganda designed to keep public morale from becoming so low they rebelled and started killing people at home, while the army was away.

This poem, however, is also about the baseness of lust gone unchecked. There's at least one reference to pedophilia. The intent is to show that animal urges become vulgar in and of themselves, regardless of the language employed. Our civilized society has been moving further away from savagery for quite some time. If thrust into an environment devoid of the mechanisms of civility man could quickly devolve into a bestial creature again.

It's all about desire. The poem following this delves deeply into Zen Buddhism and ridding the self of desire. This poem was meant to set a basis for the condemnation of desire. This is not a glorification of such urges, or any sort of confession from a mythical author or a fictitious viewpoint. This was an indictment of such behavior.

At the same time there is also a blunt meaning, which goes hand in hand with the baby flesh propaganda tact. It is that sometimes simple lust can be mistaken for something worse, because deep down most people know just how horrifyingly dark lust can make the mind. Simple lust becomes equated with something more sinister, more complex, more evil. Painting the image as I did shows just how impossible it would be to reconcile that inward evil image with the reality of such acts. So few people are really like that, yet the image comes to mind because of them. Suspicions are cast on everyday people because of fear, when such acts and individuals represent a tiny, tiny sliver of even the worst and most perverted among humanity.

Needless to say, such people would likely not spend about a week writing one of the best poems of their life about it. They would be busy mutilating their own genitalia, or whatever it is such evil people do. I really don't know much besides the sort of imagery their reality invokes in my creative awareness.

If you didn't know before that I am one of the world's most daring poets, then you do now. I'll tell you why. I am daring because if taken at face value, things like this could easily get me killed or worse (and worse probably wouldn't be hard to do to me considering how crippled I am).

I started my career as a writer thinking that I would become legitimately accepted and recognized not long after I finished college. That did not happen. Just because success left me behind does not mean that I stopped acting like my poetry would one day be discovered and people would say, "Holy crap! This is wicked word play, with layers of meaning." Now, years later it is finally coming to light. I'll be damned if I let the world drag my hard work and artistic clarity through the mud because they don't understand what the fuck I'm doing.

This is not a diary. This poem is a fucking masterpiece of the macabre (that's a joke, in case you didn't know). And I toiled over it. If you don't get it go back to when you were eight years old and start paying attention until you reach this point in life again.

One more thing. Just so everyone that's still unconvinced knows: The child I refer to is me. I was the child. I was the victim. So get over yourselves, because I won't have you making my work look bad.

(Update: Explaining myself gets tiresome. I'm referring to the child in the poem. Also, college girls, when I discuss old and grisly wanting young hotness. It just gets harder and harder to talk to the young ladies in their early 20's who are my favorite people in the world. When they get to my age they are all full of heartache and exhaustion, of which I have plenty of my own already. I would think people would get that.)

I forgot. There's a really big meaning. Nothing is wrong with any consensual sexual behavior among mature adults (Or even immature adults. I like cartoons.), but some people make it sound like a horror story. Maybe I already implied that, but I wanted to make sure I said it. Normal sexuality encompasses a huge range of behaviors. Only fears from the dogmatic make it sound bad]