Pleased for a King.

Stand tall and silent in the face of me;
against the trickery of the Milky Way…
in compliance with the God of Defiance;
forget ever seeing me broken this way…

This prayer is born of necessity;
these pitiful tears turn out to be mine…
I again, come back to feel your whip crack;
I’ve been lost: following the eyes of blind…

Please grant to me: your moments asleep;
I’d be pleased if a King was to still dream of me…
don’t cast me too far beyond your sovereign reach;
please circle back for me, before you finally leave…

Without your presence of balance, I’ve lost my way;
I need your conversation and I want feel your kiss…
time to act, no holding back another single day;
what’s most important here is that we can still do this…

Palms up to push at the bottom of your heart;
but you cursed and swatted me away…
I bet you will look for me here eventually;
after I died waiting to see that “someday”.

Kink.

Eyes, locked that never leave my thighs, as I pass by –

parade-rested – ideas nested deeply in your mind;

let stand: up your man, hands down, at your sides;

don’t feel shy – or try to hide –

let those savage instincts over-ride;

Hold, molten to your soul in solid gold, the coveted prize –

cradled tightly – carried brightly by the iris of your eye;

follow me: into Ecstasy, and let your body be satisfied;

don’t act blind – let me ease your mind –

just undress and find your way inside;

Sweat, drips salty-wet, drop erotic tears, in my eyes –

legs shaking – an undertaking of the most pleasant type;

climax; then relax, let your wind fill the skies;

you can unwind – this suits us both fine –

forget the details you’ve been scratching to find;

Time, passes along before I am gone into the dark of night –

softly scented and slightly resented for loving your body so right;

let be: the naked memory, lit up golden in the firelight;

don’t think me unkind – it’s a bad habit of mine –

to leave before it becomes Me to be left behind.

Pleased for a King.

Stand tall and silent in the stardust;
against the trickery of the Milky Way…
in compliance with the God of Gods;
in regret of the very words I must say…

This prayer is born of necessity;
these pitiful tears turn out to be mine…
I have veered from the path in my travels;
I am guilty of following the eyes of blind…

Please grant me your moments asleep;
pleased for a King to still dream of me…
don’t cast me far from your sovereign reach;
please circle back round before you leave…

Without your wisdom, I lost my balance;
I need your presence and I want your kiss…
it’s not important to me how this gets done;
what’s important is that we can still do this…

Palms both up to rush the face of the clock;
in stone if they need to become that way…
I know that you will someday look for me here;
and I intend to be here for that “someday”.

Kink.

Eyes, locked that never leave my thighs, as I pass by –

parade-rested – ideas nested deeply in your mind;

let stand: up your man, hands down, at your sides;

now, don’t be shy – don’t try to hide –

just let your savage instincts override;

Hold, molten to your soul in solid gold, the coveted prize –

cradled tightly – carried brightly by the iris of your eye;

follow me: into Ecstasy, and let your body be satisfied;

so, don’t act blind – let me ease your mind –

just undress and find your way inside;

Sweat, drips salty-wet, drop erotic tears, in my eyes –

legs shaking – an undertaking of the most pleasant type;

climax; then relax, let your wind fill the skies;

you can just unwind – this suits us just fine –

forget the devilish detail you’ve been searching to find;

Time, passes along before I am gone into the dark of night –

softly scented – slightly resented for loving your body so right;

let be: the naked memory, fire-lit and golden in the throes tight;

oh, don’t think me unkind – it’s a habit of mine –

to promptly leave before I get left behind.

“The Apologetic Puckerface”.

Dr. Quackenfuck has coined a new term for my “I’m Sorry” face; since he says he sees it appear so often;

“You know…? For someone who’d always be the very last one to go out of your way to hurt anybody, you sure do say ‘I’m sorry’ a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah – I know…it’s some fucked up default mechanism I have apparently acquired in more recent years; thanks for the highlight though, dude.”

2015-02-18_14.03.01-1(1)I say “I’m sorry” more than any other phrase or statement – by a landslide. It’s similar to the way we, as human beings (especially the more mutated versions of the species), have cultivated the habit of robotically responding to questions such as, “How are you?” with “Good” or “Fine”, or any other variation of such meaningless syllables. We have evolved within our spoken and written languages worldwide in this way: to carry less and less meaning on the wings of our words.
My tendency to spit out the phrase “I’m sorry” has only become annoyingly predominant within the past decade, yes – it was born into the “Post Ripper Era” with the current-day ‘me’. It seems to be a reflexive response that I execute most commonly, as a knee-jerk response to the things that are going on around me – with particular emphasis on things that I feel like I have no control over. For instance, 1) when my girlfriend tells me she lost her purse and everything in it: I tell her that I’m sorry; 2) when a client mentions the hardship that he or she is having financially: I respond my saying that I’m sorry; 3) when the clerk at the grocery store dumps a handful of coins as she hurriedly tries to punch them into my palm at the register: my reaction is to apologize to her for her lack of grace. It is something that comes up time and again between me and my family/friends, also; everybody always seems to be asking me what I am sorry about.
Most of the time, as soon as I say it, I think to myself:

‘What the fuck are YOU even sorry for, Bambi?’

– only to come up empty once again, in regard to an acceptable answer as to why the hell I am so fucking sorry all the time, about everything.
The over-caffeinated tree-squirrel (my shrink) says that this likely stems from my “Survivor’s Guilt”; that lovely term some moron psychiatrist coined to describe that emotional/mental anchor that I drag from my ankles, when it comes to any guilt I continue to harbor from my previous existence before that last, major injury. He seems to think that I subconsciously believe that apologizing to others about totally unrelated events will bring me comfort and closure somehow…I seem to think that he is a full-blown crackhead if he honestly believes that I am so fucking dense. I mean – c’mon…I think I deserve a little more cred on the self-awareness front than to actually have my shrink entertaining such miserably pathetic ideas about where my head is at. Damn!
I’m not sure, as there are admittedly many aspects surrounding my do-over life that I do not fully comprehend at this point of things, but I would venture to say that I say I’m sorry so often because I feel like I am sorry pretty often…duh. When my cousin totals her car on the interstate and gets arrested for DUI and tries to call me for bail money: I am sorry when I tell her I’m sorry; same goes for most of the various instances in which I can be found spitting out apologies for things that I did not necessarily have any hand in causing or creating – I can feel sorry that bad things to other people, I can offer apologies for how fucked up the world is becoming in general. I am truly sorry for the things that many of us are forced to endure throughout life and death and everything in between.
And, it turns out, upon closer introspection on this topic – the root trigger to my compelling need to say that I am sorry is exactly what I am constantly apologizing for: IT IS THE COLLECTIVE UGLINESS OF MY FELLOW HUMAN SPECIES. Most of the times that I say “I’m sorry” to somebody when I have done nothing to warrant a personal apology, it is due to my own disgust with the things that people unfailingly do to others – no more, no less.

Strung Up.

It hurts me,
deeply;
to know of
so heavy a burden carried…
Feeling trapped,
aimlessly;
wandering through
an existence instinctively…
Feeling shamed,
persecutedly;
stripped and strung up
for all to come whip me…
Feeling disbelief,
completely;
so hard to accept
the truths I can’t help but see…
Feeling lonely,
thoroughly;
the bed sheets are
nearly as cold as me…
Feeling empty,
regrettably;
he’s at a pub writing
poetry to forget me.

Sorry.

“How are you feeling?”
Her eyelids slowly peeled themselves open against the sandpaper that seemingly held them closed; the room began to swim slightly, so she closed them again to stop the ocean of nausea that threatened to consume her if she tried to respond to her husband’s question.
“Don’t try to sit up,” he placed his oversized hand gently on her chest to ease her body backwards again; “You’re hurt pretty bad, Babe…”
The tears came then, despite her efforts to stop them; and she began to sob loudly in her husband’s lap. He calmly lulled her crying and soothed her with repeated pats gently to her back, strokes to her hair…words to her heart.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry….I’m so sorry, it’s okay, it’s okay…”
She cried out of sheer disgust and disbelief and disdain; her tears did not come from the numbed out physical injuries, whatever they may be this time, she wasn’t yet sure; she cried because of the mind-fuck life that she had built for herself with this crazed man-thing.
After a few moments of mental processing and crying, she again sat forward and successfully fought off the waves of nausea against the motion.
“I’m fine, I’m okay…” She wiped at her bloody, snotty face to clear her hair from the way; “Can I please clean up?”
Her husband looked down at her with a sad face, a truly sad face…she stared into his dark blue eyes and sought out a human being somewhere in the vast coldness within. Her heart began to thump heavily inside of her ribcage again as his calm voice spoke to her.
“Of course you can…do you need any help?” His huge frame shifted slightly beneath her tiny one, as he began to jump up in action to her request.
The woman thought briefly about this question before saying,
“Maybe you can pour me a bath?”
With that, her husband lifted her broken body off of his lap and placed her carefully down again after he stood up to go run her bathwater. She lay there in silence, in darkness; afraid to make her way into the bathroom where she would have no choice other to see her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly feel her own body these days; the numbness that her inner-survivor had cultivated and learned to maintain made feeling her physical injuries rather difficult anymore. She knew instinctively, however, that she was in bad shape…The Ripper only babied her when he feared her death.