Abandon Ship

I'm like clotted up shit in your synapses, your syntaxes, with poorly written reflexes or retractions. Some things I probably should have never brought to light, never put to white, never said in type. There are rhymes and then there are times when nothing seems quite lyrical, the literal interpretation of the physical is ridiculed and cynical. And then, sometimes, you just make some shit up that sounds good and run with it. Forget the need to say something and mean something, forget that they're not mutually exclusive. Forget it. Unlearn what you have learned.

I like verbatim, but I prefer vulgarity.

And now you see the clarity, the pure, genetic rarity. You see the underside of me. Not the other side, you've seen that. Or the Otherside, that's been there, too. But the underside. The parasites and symbiotes that cling to me because the filth that accrues along my underbelly nourishes them. It's a wicked sort of self-assurance, or maybe it's just self-deterrence. When my inhibitions punched out, the delusions clocked in. And it occurs to me, the only things I've left to say are sins.

My only fear is anonymity, that when I die and Odin hoists me from this mortal world, I will have said only sweet nothings, and nothing worth recalling.

I have written volumes upon volumes of words for no reason. Save that maybe Whitman was right and the world around us sings and breathes and speaks. Perhaps then all these noises are more than half-imagined. Or maybe less. They build to a crescendo, but I cannot discern the words, nor the notes, nor the instruments. Bagpipes, maybe. Pissed-off Scotsmen.

I like poetry in motion, but I like motion in poetry more.

Similies are like anal sex. Often times awesome, occasionally just good, and every once in a while someone takes a shit on you.

I called you forty times today, and each time I called you a whore. And each time, I wondered if it would be the last time my lascivious thirst would seek you out. I wondered in the most salacious of my ravenous appetites had been, at least blunted. And each time I found myself wishing I could simply eat you and have the fantasy done with. No bones left to admire, no skin to caress, no muscle to watch, awe-struck at the pure, naked beauty. Just a hollow bit of air where you used to stand and wait for me to need you.

This is foolishness. Utter folly. Gods grant me a sword, I think I've fallen in love.

Man Overboard,
S.R.