Hue-me-lee-(tee)-ated

In this mind of mine, the floodgates open when the MP3 goes live as soon as I'm out the door.

The beat-beating-rap-pa-pop-pop-grrrr of the tunes I'd consume - soundtrack for self-involved mutter.

But I walk the walk.
Runway-perfect.
Keeping a steady pace.
Fast but not lightning speed.

'Cuz there's a beat pounding in my head that's making me feel the hot sassy she-male this being seems to be at the moment.

Swinging my hips.
Sleeves rolled up.
Hands in pockets.
Sunglasses donned.

Undeterred in the least by eventual or maybe the ongoing humiliation...

...of having succumbed a number of times to the heart-shaped branding that scars you for life.

You know what I mean.

Yeah. Can't touch this.

Second Thoughts

متى ستور غتي؟

في الثتا ء والصيف؟

اليو غدا؟

عند الندم و السلام؟

وا تؤ جل رحلتك و تمكث عندي ليل اكثر؟

When will you bid me farewell?

In winter or summer?

Today or tomorrow?

With regret or with peace?

Or will you postpone your journey and stay with me for one more night?

PHOTO BY SI

Methycal Dreaming at Close Range

PHOTO BY SI

We try hard to fit into big adult shoes, the kind of shoes that command supremacy,

Supremacy of belief, supremacy of opinion, supremacy of bodily integrity, supremacy of space, to boldly go where...

In those shoes, we could be like them,
the ones with privileged destinies,
handcrafted by doting deities.  

But we weren't born of that magnetic quality, Instead, we were a homely, pedestrian variety, Invisible to the artist's deft hands,
for the artist's muse can no doubt be,
Anything other than beauty,
Beholden in their creator's eye. 

We must then seek satisfaction in tainted dust,
Deluding us on our trip towards elusive heights,
that all but vanish into oblivion when mediocrity rises with the sun.

Success is their glory, while ours, mere fantasy,
Infected with some kind of cataclysm,
that, upon detonation, reveals the poverties of our reckless minds.

An insatiable Hunger. For the Elevation of our Being.

Yet, we linger evermore, in deference, temple to the ground,
Humili-tied to the bondage of invisibility,
No other place to go, we retreat into a wounded esteem,
Hanging by a crystalline thread. 

In a fatal turn towards stygian shores,
We're drawn instinctively to hallowed turf,
Populated by a uniformed Authority,
that all too soon, discover our strange ilk is made of vices.

Such sufferings are found across human terrains, however motley, 

A convergence of countless stoned effigies,
Nothing more than confined paracletes of you and I.

It's the common thread that keeps running through us,
So, do not dare to ascend the well-calibrated rungs, for, at the top, is an unseen quietus,
Expertly formulated by thick-skinned Justice, this, our new sentence, declared,
For no other grounds but the peurile audacity of our skittish hearts.

Stop now! Stop that which we carelessly granted ourselves.
Stop the abdication of our cursed counterfeit crowns,
neuro-configured in cells, where requisite rehab was the prototype.

Sadly, free will interfered with the predetermined slithering of the thread.

Fools!
The spindle would have run its course!
These four walls would have given way to our Liberation!
But, for that carnage-prone dis-eaze, that love has forsaken!

We now listen for the sound of reverberating footsteps,
An overture for the final symphony that might surely end with mechanized applause,
An ear-splitting clap-clap, followed by 15 seconds of silence,
A twisted mimicry by the Heads - with a hint of irony on speed,
of the 15 years as punishment for our compulsive deeds.

Too late.
You and I are now dead. 

This poem is dedicated to RLS and others in similar circumstances whose punishment surpasses their  “crime”. 

Say it without saying it

PHOTO BY SI

S-s-s-secretzzz

Shhhhh....

I've moved thruuu this life, since that day, on the 24 of 04 of 09...


That day, when life was supposed to have felt different, but actually, it hadn't hit me yet
'Cuz I was trapped in somebody else's storm, a storm I had a hand in creating.

I got trapped. So did the audible articulations. They all stopped moving,
It feels for good.

For the good, I suppose. Yes.

For...

I am a criminal.
A tainted body.
A filthy mind.
A sadist's soul.
Undercover.
With s-s-s-secretzzz
To delight in the mens sibi conscia recti of the Other, my Lover.

Lover, you want me. But do you know me?
You're so naive, you won't take a second look.
You think the package is all there.
Nice. Neat. Compact.

But. Under the glimmering shadow of tenderness. Your hands.
I swallow my reality to make space for yours.
And yours. O my God. Yours is a deluge of likelihood - revered by the male historicity.

Yet, you stand apart, your strong arms wrench you "lone wolf"
tight, tight, tight, you occupy. Me.

That feeling, yes, that feeling when each becomes one.
And I'll say it without saying it.