I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
Touch, a spectrum,
Pleasure, peace, and affliction.
Too little or too much
Distorts the stimulation,
Turning tenderness cold
And neglect burning hot.
To fear touch,
To know my flesh can feel.
Disassemble itself lasciviously,
Dismember itself in pain,
Falter, fall apart,
Or give way to forced entry.
It never stops,
Inside, around, over-top.
Sinking into puddles,
Poring down my chest,
From fingertips to drawing breath.
Blood, muscle, and flesh,
All elements of the body
So palpably aware.
A carnal revelation
In litanies of pain
Written by dissection
On cerebellum walls.
So pliable and weak,
So simple to restrain,
So sensitive to touch,
Manipulatable and soft.
Do bones of the starved
Congeal into demons
To slake their thirst
On our living blood?
Do hordes of average men
Yearn for satisfaction
In the sight and feel
Of our mangled forms?
Should I desire much
To be just a ghost,
An incorporeal dust
Just floating alone?
And how would that soothe
The screaming I hear
From a younger sibling
Whose cat ran away?
Back and forth
Swings the razor’s edge
Cutting every second
In perpetual rhythm.
Sleeping in distress,
No syllable expressed
Of the grinding apparatus
Against our bosom.
Frivolous in deeds,
Expedient in needs,
As the pendulum swings
Deeper through the chest.
Tickling tender nerves
And numbing all the rest.
Revelry in laughter
Midst superficial chatter,
Ticking ever onward
And bleeding fibers pale.
Gaiety and madness
In masochistic gladness,
Sinking through the heart,
Defiant shallowness impaled.
Unfazingly through my consciousness,
Outside my bleeding spot.
The open wound from my crown of thorns
My most tender aspects.
To infect every fragment of my mind.
And re-shaping my disposition.
The abrasion too painful to touch,
At the suggestion of sensation.
Only to tickle it for a moment
Sends it gushing
And pouring down my tear-spout.
Let it out.
Empty this swollen mass of trauma
Little by little
Until it’s finally gone forever.
Never forget a childhood spent in pain
Or the sufferings that are unique in youth.
As a living being dependent on protection,
Conditioned to accept and embrace their misuse.
From seething traumas to reinforced behaviors
We’re shuttled from shelter by society’s whims.
Pre-designed systems of disciplinary education,
Traditions of conduct to make us like them.
Emotions you’d feel but maybe couldn’t explain,
Ideas dismissed as mere innocent mistakes.
Assumptions that you couldn’t know better
From adults who didn’t understand how you think.
Petty injustices seemed relatively large
When individual happiness meant the whole world.
The first steps towards tasting the bitterness of life,
To the first sight of cruelty’s colors unveiled.
Remember your rights and remember your wrongs,
Remember the choices left for others to decide,
Remember what you were and how you’ve been changed,
And remember the battles you used to fight.
Know children everywhere will face the same pains,
Know they’ll be fighting as we did to survive,
So when you acquire some decisions on fate,
Remember adults are who structure their lives.
Discomfort, and memories of events that I wish had never occurred.
Mistakes, or missteps or circumstances that were beyond my capacity to influence.
Allow me to start over,…
A naïve sensitive boy meets a girl far more sensitive but far less naïve.
She knows things about pain, rape, heartbreak, and the general things that the least lucky women come to know.
She’s a masochist by natural selection, in that she was selected by events beyond her capacity to influence.
He was a sadist in the same way, not dangerous, but perfectly willing to scratch her wherever she itched, if so desired.
All of this to say,…
They fell in love, heavily, in the worst kind of way too cliché to describe with a straight face.
The way in which more experienced lovers might scoff or turn away from, sickeningly.
Stupid love, in which both parties imagine that the other was tailor made for their needs.
Where every mental or emotional quirk was not only satisfied, but celebrated as what makes them special and unique.
They were smitten, and when they fucked it was passionate enough for them to cry about.
Melting into each others pores, sweating and savoring every precious moment of it.
The way she would say, “Please, put your cigarette out on my back baby, please!”
And the way he would hesitate, and say, “I can’t find a place you haven’t already burned yourself.”
And the way she’d say, “Do it anyway.”
All of this to say,…
It ended in the worst possible way, dramatically, traumatically, it ended with a rape.
The way in which a stray wolf confuses masochism with someone willing to be used in any kind of way.
While he, the boy, the naïve and sensitive boyfriend was beyond the capacity to influence it in any way.
Where he and she were both beyond the capacity to influence the event that destroyed their naïve and innocent cliché.
The wolf however, did pay. You understand, as a sadist himself the boy knew exactly how that wolf felt.
The sick and selfish ways in which he enjoyed the girl’s humiliation and pain.
Which is why his switchblade cut the wolf across his face, and may have killed him if he hadn’t been restrained.
Anyway, those two lovers are now estranged. She’s married and he’s still walking around somewhere looking dazed.
All of this to say,…
If you see a young man reading a poem about erotic bloodlust and heartbreak, he probably know what the fuck he’s talking about. Thanks.
Pulse pounding erotic bloodlust,
Simulated sadism sustaining vicarious power
Heart sick, hollow, sexual submission
Combustion, stamen, pistol and flower.
Body and blood tasting,
Seductive sad smiles that stimulate
Rational animals seeking suffering
Suffer me slowly, so I may pollinate.
Shall I be the stamen or pistol?
Should I say what I’m trying to say?
Should separations, so separate us?
Shall I pretend that I’m only playing?
Will you give me, give up everything?
Will you make me, take me all away?
Can I hold you, hurt you in my arms?
Can I thrust you, trust you all the same?
Desperate tears for our garden,
Tender kisses for our wounds,
Knives for our fresh lacerations,
Sleep for our comfort, entombed.
Do you see what I’m trying to say?
How much this, is really me?
Are you enjoying my display?
Is this how it’s better to be?
He didn’t like the taste.
Both bitter sweet and acrid.
His tongue and throat incensed with displeasure
With a disposition towards inducing vomit.
He swallowed and held in the bile.
It was painful but necessary.
There was no avoiding that poison,
and the sooner it was finished the better.
Ahh, true apothecary.
He could feel it settling in his stomach.
Very soon it would pass into the bloodstream
setting his nerves afire punishingly.
But he knew he would not die.
Pain beyond pain, agony, torture,
but he would not die.
This was not a death sentence.
It was a pain to last a lifetime.
To be remembered, never truly fading,
unless one was miserable enough to become numb to it.
“Fuck you Eve,” he said to himself.
It wasn’t fair, but that was how he felt.
He knew he was getting what he deserved.
But that didn’t stop the anger, or the resentment.
The poison dissolved quickly. He could feel it now.
“God damn you Eve!” He shouted. “God damn! Fuck me!”
Tears fell. Profanities were spat. The worst was soon over.
But the pain was always there beneath the surface.