of women and world

what a sin it is to forsake the transformative, hypnotic power of real love-making, as opposed to the quick release of lust-infused fucking. not that the latter isn’t called for now and then, a temporary indulgence in the ice-cream-pints of pleasure the world offers on its surface. but the sugar high is short-lived and not quite nourishing. you’ll have to dig deeper to discover the protein of contemplation, the fiber of feeling, the water of wisdom.

Haphazard

The hissing speaker threatens to emit
an ear-pounding shriek;
snakepit of power cables looking for
someone to convulse.
Cartloads of shiny guitars waiting to be
splintered in ecstasy, or at least
in pursuit.
Row after row of
big, hot lights are
hung by sweaty hands
that struggle not to slip from the slippery steel trusses.
Colossal black curtains are hoisted
high behind the lights,
industrial sized smoke machines
installed on the stage floor.

Luscious grass waits to be
trampled half to death by dancing feet.
Thick plastic tents are pitched in
strategic locations
with portable particle board tables,
tap machines and cash boxes.
Freshly sanitized, sweetly smelling,
sparkling Johnny-on-the-spots
are backed in by beeping trucks.

A night of excesses is
in the air, an all-out
get freaky fest,
a thousand people coming with
a thousand libidos,
all unconsciously seeking that
one, gargantuan, group
orgasm.
Figuratively speaking, of course.

At first, they’ll shuffle in
sober, awkwardly keen to
anyone who might be
looking at them.
All around are displays of
concocted self-confidence,
blatant self-advertisement.
But soon, liquor and hash starts to
dull the desire to strut, and
weakens the threat that
other strutters pose.

Not long before fragile personas
shatter revealing lost,
lusting, barbaric
honesty. Timidity has
given way to truth,
however haphazardly.

Imbalance

Clutter spews out across the cloroxed floor
threatens to take over
the dogs are lovin’ it - it’s their world, restored.
they’ll have none of this sterile, sheltered existence
lick the fucking floor - it’s aaaaaall goooooooood.
tell me to stop please.
I dare you.
Do it, or I’ll double-dare to rectify your insolence.

Cheers. To all the years of struggling and juggling
to slack my way through college.
Was it worth it?
It was nothing.
All the same,

being a ten year veteran
to broken feelings,
I can’t help but notice you.
Take it for what it’s worth,
sip it slowly,
take it down,
don’t upset your gut
reactionary tendencies.

it’s just a feeling, ya know?

twist the intestines, wrench your ligaments,
almost grow a tail.
Eyes searching, hands shaking,
don’t fucking falter as you
grab the goose eggs from their nest
their mother isn’t looking
do it now--
regret it later fuckface
not a fairy tale it’s Karma keep your
killing under wraps.

Bows and arrows
thud their targets
way the fuck off center.
Thick wet clouds threaten to unleash.
Pablo dons his pancho,
as if a large plastic grocery bag
will protect him from the
immensity of Mother Nature.