Archives for March 2016

Ode to the fantasies I dare not imagine;
The ultimate of desires, that I can barely caress—
The most damned of taboos;
For she is a ghost, and I am of flesh—

Ode to the thoughts that wander around her;
The only dress, that I dare not denude—
For the only way to acknowledge her;
Is not in her truth, but in her allude—

Ode to Sophia, to Isis, to Giaa;
The one of many, and the many of nom de guerre—
For she who is mine, might be she who is yours;
But mine is mine, in my motley affair—

Ode to the one for whom I belong;
Her hug my womb, her womb my odyssey—
And together we disembroil the umbilical;
For our harmony is our sovereignty—

Ode to the mom, of my highest myth;
My sister, my daughter, my one revered flame—
The stars, the moon, the earth;
the dancing embers, a chandelier dame—

Ode to the Axis Mundi, my worldly phallus;
The mighty penetration that substantiates my virility—
And the affection is so hungers for;
To soothe the state of my inability—

Ode to the limits of the infinite;
The edges that let me prowl her extravagant bust—
The definite and the imminent;
The uninhibited howl of the animist tuft—

Ode to the voice that has called my name;
The one I was given, like everything with which I am acquainted—
Though still hard to believe, to accept, to have absolute faith;
It is the way, it is the road, it is the path that I find sacred— 

She was a wild rose in my garden, surely I did not plant the seed—As she overtook all that grew within the garden gates, I found that unless I danced upon her blooming petals, I would be left asunder in the looming darkness she had also made for me—

Unless such love consumes all of life, as to define where you are in relation to such a thing; you know not love, and only know love’s creation as a veil covering your very own heart—  I am not my only self, she would whisper in my ear; and though I could only know her in the confines of my skin, she made such skin worthwhile—

And such strength in the belief of my own rule was as brittle as my bones to such that rules— I would surely kneel down to bliss, and I would surely rise up for hers; for a man who thinks the weakness in the face of the waters is that of a ripple, is a man who won’t allow himself to be distorted, and in so a man who could not allow himself to be moved— And such a man is his own tombstone; marking the grave where he ought to have lived—

And I am tombstone, I am a wandering tombstone; till one disturbs my grave—

The primal struggle I see occurring in every single aspect of our existence is some form of control; whether you are a political nut, conspiracy nut, a religious nut, a spiritual nut, or a science nut; it tends to all be about maintaining some paradigm of control, and either you have it and want to maintain it, or you don’t have it and are desperate for it—

The other side of this is acceptance, surrender, toleration; and this is primarily in the humanist type movements as well as spiritual religious type movements— It all seems to be about control—

My path? Learning how to fucking dance with grace— I am a dancing nut— I love, I hate, I laugh, I cry; and they all have the pleasure of existence—