I share your orgy blood, king Dionysus, and from your ashes raise a thousand revelries. Oh let me taste the honey-cakes of sin; let me subsist on surfeit long enough. I cannot long contain my burgeoning, my holy light that would drink and eat and love embracing fullness praising pleasure breaking bread dying young but free.
Embrace the Sun's bitter sweet morning; soaking in at pores, conferring upon you, in darkening shades, its wholesale consent. Rise to the pain in back, in legs, in thighs, and feel them fully. Understand the dancing dust celebrate their bygone lives, the sweetness of forgetting in her golden kiss. Savor the muscles' strain, the pangs before breakfast, the cold of silent, storied rooms: these are her arms outstretched, inviting you to infinite vitality.
Can't you see my swivel head spin, orbiting a concussion sun? Breathless, beaten blue thoughtless, head metal-racket feet disconnected from heart, mind disjointed thinking how can I be so helpless?
It's Mortal Kombat, so I should have known the possibility; seen the eventuality-- Even the best sometimes succumb to pissants spamming "punch." Cheap shots, cheap shots, the idiot luck of the game hastily constructed, ad hoc pixels slapped together accidental death trap.
Listen because I am the only grown up left. Listen because this house’s bones are bending, load-bearing wall, sagging, groaning, hungry. Listen because the rust-water comes, leaky piped, bile pools, streaking nursery walls, baby waking wet. Listen because Mother and Father will not wake, try as we have to rouse them From opulent slumber. Listen because daylight has dwindled and night is long. Because the boil-man is calling at the front door. Because the kitchen is barren, bereft over bygone revelry and nostalgia...
This is somebody's wasted light its record in mindless unthought scrawl. How many exposures are burned this way? Little scraps lining workplace floors, How high a pile can be made with sweeping? What desolate dunes? What funeral fires?
Countless lives in service of nothing, counting down to death.
A supplication to the gods who feast upon the pain-varietals of man; An entertaining tease to pass the time as ages wilt and rot eternally. I sing a song that you may slake the thirst, or rather, give you cause to let it slip your mind, a willed omission. In repense, confer upon you something to be told when you, your greatest cravings cannot sate. Thus is what I offer greater still than any fleeting bliss you may derive from all my fleeting mortal agony.