Flock.

Let’s be like herded sheep, shall we?

and stand in line for centuries,

like in mind to the dullest ancestries,

let’s evolve without changing anything…

now, we all line up without questioning,

spend money on shit that has no meaning,

nothing to show have we “sentient beings”,

besides the bombs we can blow atomically…

we watch the World News from home on TV,

bump our gums about what we’d do differently,

but at the end of the day, that logic is shifty,

coming from a cesspool of such inactivity…

Let’s line up overnight to see a premièring movie,

then trample each other with the doors’ opening,

we each do what we like without ever considering,

how the rest of the sheep want other sheep things…

and sadly things will only become more trifling,

because sheep are too stupid to know anything,

unable to think on one’s stand-alone feet,

we are all doomed ‘til we stop acting like sheep.

Overstuffed.

 

Friday night
in the black and white filmstrip,
an evening wind licks,
howls out clear and crisp,
can’t quite catch my breath;
heart-heavy –
touch your hand to my heart
and get ready –
the whip cracks back,
bitten into my bottom lip,
the tension slacks
and I twitched under your fingertips;
in rhythmic and seamless movements;
flows dominantly –
touch tongue to skin
and the outs and ins you find fitting –
burned through the dark,
your eyes made out of twinkly skies,
hand-fed meals for my Master,
a mouth full of sugary lies,
your touch
breaks my spirit down;
leaves it for dead –
your voice
sings the revival
non-stop in my head –
my body is awe-stricken,
whip-lashed into submission,
flipped front and back,
on your overstuffed bed.

Overstuffed.

p_a_i_n_by_the__pessimist-d5cynmq

Friday night
in the black and white filmstrip,
an evening wind licks,
howls out clear and crisp,
can’t quite catch my breath;
heart-heavy –
touch your hand to my heart
and get ready –
the whip cracks back,
bitten into my bottom lip,
the tension slacks
and I twitched under your fingertips;
in rhythmic and seamless movements;
flows dominantly –
touch tongue to skin
and the outs and ins you find fitting –
burned through the dark,
your eyes made out of twinkly skies,
hand-fed meals for my Master,
a mouth full of sugary lies,
your touch breaks my spirit down;
leaves it for dead –
your voice sings the revival
non-stop in my head –
my body is awe-stricken,
whiplashed into submission,
flipped front and back,
on your overstuffed bed.

Spiders and Snipers

Image

(Original Photo by Americana Injustica, 2005)

 

I do not know which way to go,
the signs all look the same;
There is no predefined – start or finish line,
no daybreak to the night.
 
I cannot figure my own grip on the trigger,
wrapped tightly into a metallic weave.
It’s hard to define which pieces are mine,
and when I can, I choose not to perceive.
 
Sniper’s spiders scatter like exploding dark matter,
upon the highest points, looking down at me;
My heart beats like a drum into dead woman’s hum,
and then darkness falls all around me.