Skip to main content

Fickle Moon








Fickle Moon



I know this may lack logic/
I'm too damn honest/
And cant often/
Keep a bland promise/
Take my hand, walk with/
Me and understand problems/
Come with me like leaves smashed, fallen/
Underfoot in a damp Autumn/
I grab often/
At the dark for a lamp stalking/
Me, begging for the light like a plant starving/
A man carves is/
Place out with ants crawling/
All over him/
But I've chosen this/
Life, and the mad mauling/
That I know exists/
And will always land haunting/
Me, I cant follow/
The lamb's slaughter/
Cause I'll laugh dropping/
Exposing this/
Lack of ownership/
Over this/
Floating rift/
Closing in/
On me, I hear the chants starting/
About how I make no sense/
And you hate those men/
That claim broken/
Status/
Out of habit/
Only to chase those checks/
Straight to wrecks/
I make you stressed/
But you love to awake and flex/
In my arms, painful stretch/
Aches and tremb-/
Ling limbs, tracing deft/
Across my gainful chest/
Baby lets/
Tame old pets/
Inhaling jet/
Streams of fabric/
And romantic/
Thoughts, basic tense/
So come lay in bed/
To the pace we set/
And maybe then/
You wont see the weights and pens/
And realize with a sagely edge/
That I'm an unstable mess/
In great distress/
Both our signals are mixed/
But the difference is/
That in the middle of this/
Interesting flick-/
Er of glimmering glitt-/
Er I'm picturing whisk-/
Ing you away to our hidden abyss/
Minimal trips/
To a literal cripp-/
Le, I'm lifting you with/
A little of this/
And that, assiduous risk/
But I'm missing the kiss/
Of that innocent bliss/
You deliver to this/
Unfiltered dismissed/
Deviant/
Steeping in/
His liquor and pills/
Intimate thrills/
With legitimate will/
In the interim he'll/
Enjoy it while withering still/
In this room/
An interlude/
The risk exudes/
My distant ruse/
It's my inner tube/
Keeping me floating, and I will it to/
Exist in you/
This is proof/
That the mistress youve/
Become to me/
Is something need-/
Ed by a troubled me/
For all the years I've moved/
Dinner, smooth/
As the liver croons/
A simple tune/
In our sinner's booth/
Drinks, whiskey, true/
Something sweet for little you/
Dipped in fruit/
That shimmers through/
Caught in the brittle youth/
Of the light of the fickle moon/


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shameless IG Plug

https://www.instagram.com/p/BjCacWplX6FygVNS5qOdcWnQRGLOPC3DlvI18o0/

We exist in a world where it seems every skill, talent or gift, no matter how esoteric or seemingly inapplicable, can, through the bittersweet, pyrrhic blessing of social media, be monetized, commodified and capitalized upon. I harbor no unrealistic goals, because realism has become hyperreal. I live a simple life, one that appears to have placed me at odds with the world's status quo. Good, fuck them. Take happiness where you can grasp and steal it, whether it's by drinking overpowering, ironically cheap beer with great friends, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs for the shock value, or doing feats of strength on public benches. In my case, everything is words and handstands. The rest is irrelevant. Forever flawed. Forever rebellious.

Beacon Of Light In The Darkness

Beacon Of Light In The Darkness




For too long I've harbored the one-sided shadows of former relationships. Torturous, rapid bombardments of perceived slights and ridiculous thought crimes. I've stifled my own opinions on everything from politics to religion, the two classic hot button issues, paragons of ostracization and dogmatic pollution.

The ghosts of the past are insidious and seductive, causing me to view them through rose-colored glasses for a formerly indeterminate amount of time. Yet now, in the absence of that old, familiar love, the grip of nostalgic fantasy has been loosened as my naivete is strangled by harsh reality.

Gasping for breath, it attacks me with a battalion of its best memories, a company of incomparable moments, countless divisions of dreams rendered dead by inaction and hatred. In the end, we all die alone. In those final, fleeting hours, we'll be surrounded by a devoted, compassionate family if were lucky, holding and pumping our aching, callouse…

Six And Four

Six And Four


Today marks 6 years since I began my enlistment, and coincidentally, had I not extended, I would be free today.

As a younger man, when the home and world I knew were unmolested by the ravages of change and the life I left behind was still relatively intact, if you had offered me a path out of the military, I would've seized it feverishly and greedily, determined to free myself from what I perceived as stifling bondage.

Now, staring down the barrel of 27, I fear gaining that complete autonomy back. I feel institutionalized in a backwards, ironic way, more like a convict on the precipice of parole than a Sailor a short time from mustering out of service.

I've gained skills and credentials that render me employable nearly anywhere, and have cultivated a healthy collection of contacts that span not only several states, but countries on either side of the world's oceans.

I've gained 40 pounds of muscle since I initially left home, and saved a large portion of …