Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 132


what I am through
Dionysian chained blue thoughts
break them or
bend yourself a space
make words confessors
make sentences to keep up the blinding pace
with thoughts that are slow, though even they race
open the face of the clock,
rocking back and forth, bent double
no clock tells time
they all lie
but they love to drop hints
nothing escapes, not a peep
certainly none of the hidden winces
on a face that's hidden quite well
the ideas all say I am begging you
and you motion back, class dismissed,
then comes to me, my dirty mind
a beautiful scene, go, shaker shake
lovely and you know what it makes
me feel
as the timeless walls send out emissaries
to gauge the proud's fall
no, clocks to make time
will never unwind
the kinks and knots
of a permanent obsession
between you and me
makes not a bit of difference
as long as someone owns
this, takes charge
with responsibility, and canters happily
with wicked candor, private or publicly
elicits unquenched wants, needs, moans
nothing could be closer than home
but knowing that the need pierces down to the bone
now can you hear me?
the warp tries to choke me
off before you struggle to know
like a partial muscle must struggle to grow
when there's not enough space to let it show
and maddening the impropriety
of not giving someone what they want
my gods but you're a wicked one
the words need to plead
but the eyes must cease
seething in advance,
while breathing, shallow
through small eyelets wink
a body that's written all over
like scrimshaw on the bawdy captive
and nothing in ink, none the worse for wear
though red does it make the face
the hoots and catcalls show everyone cares,
that's cover, disguise,
forbidden skin, and still can't rise
too late to stop or quell, so again
all thoughts inside a silent shell
wrapped thrice in leather,
strapped and tightly
a banquet where lust feeds nightly
just not the prisoner bound hand and feet
no sound but pleas for release
Bacchus chained such thoughts
but now
though I was almost through
the time went by and far too soon
the fleeing fingers quickly captured
only halfway down the laces
of the first of three binding bodices
choked by what's real again
it knew long scant reference
does know needs won't
be granted, no wishes and only strict
noes, no flow comes
tis now a rhyming schematic
capricious mystery,
no longer secret,
It's the mistress who makes me keep it.

Did I dream I wrote this or was it worse?
Am I still trapped in this mummy's curse?
Did I think this straight into text,
Or has she come to punish on another pretext?

[Note: This poem is naughty. This poem is exactly like all the poetry I burned in 1992 (?). It's about sexuality that was condemned by the Christian church. Church fucked my head up. I used to be afraid of myself. I sure wish I had not burned all that work. Over the years it has occurred to me time and time again that it was some of the best writing I ever did.]

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 129-131

I will walk you home tonight
away from alleys refuse littered,
It wasn't gold, it barely glittered,
You wanted friendship and got remorse,
Wanted a marriage and got divorced,
Fading sunshine barely lighting
Broken dreams, and painful tidings
Hollow laughter once again finds me,
With hooks and lines and sinker binds me
Flopping in the suffocating air
I wondered why your love said buyer beware
always, and I wonder still
why does the reverb vibrate until
all that is said becomes “good-bye?"
From where does the sad sound originate?
Her laughter was mocking, I wanted to die
See nothing but still hallucinate
All wrong intentions are paid in kind
So I wondered if my own humor
was something she'd find, a long time after,
Like a sunburn or worse, a malignant tumor
And in looking back see the vengeance attained.
Had the sad sound sounded
The same
Way to her at last,
Were all my empty fears unfounded
Could our private tryst have been more hounded
in the watchful jealous public eye
By scoffing at our innocent kiss
The experience that we truly missed?
This, then, is likely a true farewell.
My petty thoughts slew our love
Nothing's well
Repeatedly as always I destroy
My own ambitions.
‘Tis a pity the shy boy is so coy
These words
These endless revisions.
It could have been fun
If only we'd made better decisions.

In the interest of perfection
The self study in the mirror,
Such an excuse
For the boastful angel;
Vanity couldn't be much clearer
In time the face in the glass
Will be nothing if not conviction
The glances come stares
The scorching piece flesh
The intent behind all sultry selfishness,
Social duties, derelictions
Desire is rarely a work of fiction,
But if you don't want
Get along, get away
The smell so strong
The hunger clawing to find a way out
The blood in the corners of your mouth
You pout
Yet snub the living gift I bring
Writhing and struggling,
An old and gristly human being,
Falsely blame, I'll take the brunt
It's just a child's game, just for play,
Though the one who writes this, living inside out,
Never gets enough of the pain,
Hurts his body just to feel the hurt,
And doesn't get why they call it insane.

The photo had faded at last
Into completely gone away
gone the scent of new discovery
welcome, at least
the short
bitter-sweet release of my own final day
the opposite of the one that has birth
yes tomorrow and tomorrow
certainty of both gimmickry and laughter
the rain will come to my garden
I will harvest later
and watch more grow
then harvest merely a single picture
keeping in mind the importance of a large gene pool
every plucked image
found hanging in the bathroom
from a poorly tied noose
really more of a slipknot
tied three times
tell me something with suicide rhymes
brings the population closer to extinction
the end was sung
before the game began
none of us have any chance
without accepting the truth
welcome, we three aren’t enemies
it's from another place hand scratching
not itches but benedictine sins and saplings
another inside plant good joke
tape recorder winding and audio spills forth
the informant is grabbing it off the floor
it unspools into small piles of black
magnetic plastic rendering audio
bio empty nothing logical
what could be seen was tucked back inside the guts
behind the shirt, the face of wax
share the time and wealth and know
when one rose comes to you
future vanish
run, boy, go


Of course many of you don't get it. Why would anyone remember the most important character Douglas Adams ever wrote about? You can save the whales, but you don't give a shit about a flower pot, amirite?
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Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die