"Don't put things off…it may be later than you think."
“The Burren”
Returning to a barren
A land resigned to be
A coastal town
Somewhere down
Below the crashing sea
Abandoning the cairns
Picturesque pathways
A nice surprise
A full day’s drive
Roads lead unto ways
Jaunting out the country
Wind plays fair and true
A languid sigh
Beneath the sky
For all we cannot do
“Cú Chulainn”
Society provides a template
The template requires attention to detail and strict adherence
The infrastructure upon which society stands is perpetuated by those building things using the template
The mob gets upset with the infrastructure and decides to change the template
The infrastructure fails to support the society that exists because the template that instructs the society how to perpetuate building has changed
People are mad, because the mob decided to change the template without thinking about the consequences of how society would be supported if the template was changed
The mob eats itself because there is no one to protect it from itself because society does not exist any longer
People range around in constant states of rage and mania
Berserkers
Society provides an imperfect template
Society provides a stage upon which the actions happen
For better or worse, we are society
“Banshee”
Consumed in a fire of despair.
Wanton warning full of fear.
Screeching.
Screeching.
Wailing withal wondrous wept.
Announcing end in a breath.
No glass ceiling guarding death.
Screaming.
Screaming.
Harping harpy so inclined.
Wettest blanket of mankind.
Hope it’s me she doesn’t find.
Screeching. Screeching.
Screaming. Screaming.
How challenged are we?
Or, rather how challenged am I?
Failing to admit my desire,
and tying stakes to a one way ideal.
In order to gain your attention,
I need to acknowledge the truth of my heart:
Which is simply that I’m unable to be truthful, for fear of rejection.
I’m unable to find a way out.
What words I use,
Betray an ambiguity that is furthest from my heart.
What I mean to say; is that I want you to feel the same way about me that I feel about you.
I want you to consume that which consumes me.
I see in you the reflection,
A niggling need, a craved curiosity.
Prurient in nature.
Pins and needles.
I dream a thousand fantasies,
And sustain them moment to moment.
I thirst for your unbrushed kiss, and seek you out to give you mine.
I can drop you to your knees.
Where we can taste the life.
Our desperate hands, motivated by the excitement of revelation.
If I can just get to that truth,
And make that truth between us more apparent.
I want an equal partner in crime.
Revealing our vulnerable portions,
body and soul.
The tears are salty,
And mix with delight,
Lost, moments of exquisite pleasure.
Our secret.
Eyes locked,
Fingers and palms entwined.
Slow at first,
Gradual.
Smooth.
Pliable yielding,
And enveloped in an impending realization of getting lost.
That true power comes with letting go of yourself to another and being powerless.
Urging urgency on.
Mouthy breaths and more repetition.
More, more.
A new connectedness,
And energy.
Fallen into your event horizon.
No, pulled.
Gravity inescapable.
An encouragement that we jumped willingly,
And wanted the same thing from the outset.
Staunch plunge.
No escaping the funnel vortex.
Happy sweet bittersweet sadness.
Infinite want.
Proceeding onward.
Down.
Heartbeats.
Can’t go back.
Arrived in height and satiety.
I feel you, and hold you.
Deep within,
We touch places unseen.
Until the world melts away.
I find resurrection.
Renewed.
Ready to dwell.
Our new pleasure,
Shared.
And I burn for it.
I burn for the continuation of knowing that we exchange and will chance that passion again.
I burn for it.
We burn for it.
Every single minute.
How challenged are we?
Not able to find ways out.
A niggling curiosity.
Prurient in nature.
Pins and needles.
I dream a thousand fantasies,
And thirst for your unbrushed kiss.
Where I can taste the life on your mouth.
Desperate hands,
Revealing and coaxing into position,
Our portions,
body and soul.
The tears are salty,
And mix with delight,
Lost, moments of exquisite pleasure.
Our secret.
Eyes locked,
Fingers and palms entwined.
Slow at first,
Gradual.
Smooth.
Pliable yield.
Envelope of wetness.
Urging urgency on.
Mouthy breaths and more repetition.
More, more.
A new connectedness,
And energy.
Fallen into your event horizon.
No, pulled.
Gravity inescapable.
I jumped willingly.
Staunch plunge.
No escaping the funnel vortex.
Happy sweet bittersweet sadness.
Infinite want.
Proceeding onward.
Down.
Heartbeats.
Can’t go back.
Arrived in height and satiety.
I feel you, and hold you.
Deep within,
We touch places unseen.
Until the world melts away.
I find resurrection.
Renewed.
Ready to dwell.
My new pleasure,
Tied unto yours.
And I burn for it.
Every single minute.
What devilry is this?
Tortilla chip enhancement,
Cheesish powder fingertips.
Empty bag disappointment,
Spread out on wax paper.
Only jagged crumbs are left,
The perfect snacking caper.
Greasy charcoal crayon rendering depth on a page.
Pulling form from the invisible event horizon.
Coaxing details into existence.
Something from nothing.
A shuffling of dried and smudged papers,
Some within an oblong carrying case.
All but that one picture;
The one with spilled coffee and rings.
My secret being: that was the absolute best I could have ever done.
But, artistic propriety doesn’t allow viewing.
People might mistake my intention,
And we can’t have that.
Even in art.
Back at Christmastime,
I dined at midday,
On the winter solstice,
With my work colleagues.
We wanted Ramen,
But, begrudgingly settled for pub fare due to long lines at the Ramen place.
Pubs provide listless people lists of listless choices.
I chose the Shepard’s Pie,
infused with lamb protein.
When choosing from a listless list,
Authenticity seems important.
At least, in that moment.
But, fuck, it falls flat.
Just another pretentious misadventure,
Whereby, my dish provides all discomfort and no comfort.
The meat tasting as if simmered in a Dutch Oven with flakes of junkyard rusted automobile bodies.
Metallic.
Tinty.
Inedible.
Not my best chew.
Thank Christ for the bread. Slathered with as much butter as a teensie-weensie butter basket can provide.
Next year,
I’ll wait in the Ramen queue for however long it takes.
