Just Another Mad, Mad Love

This mad, mad love; this institutionalized emotion, is the very one which torments the souls of the most honest character, but will not pierce the skin of callous. Its unjust principles are palpable to the lonely, and desolating to the scared. But to all else around; all those who brag of strength, charisma and class, it is a def note; a lamentation blown in the wind. And this is to say nothing of the kiss: the little trick of nature designed to stop speech when words become superfluous. This action is a vulgar display to the careless, and the cruel use it as a plague on mankind, tossing Tantric tongues in a Tatumesque flurry. It is simply a precursor to pervasive actions. Where the hearty act to make love, the heartless make love an act. It makes me laugh. And nothing is more hollow than a solo laugh in a desolate room. Like an evaporating glass of water in the desert; A cruel joke.

So I lick my lips at the sight of the holistically beautiful, and watch them fall, holistically, beautifully, into detestable relationships with contestable men. I watch them tumble through iniquity, and dance their way through the pitfalls of pervasive propagandists; package deals with no warrantees, guaranties, just pleasantries. I love them all. They love them all. I weep for them as they weep for themselves. Their aren’t enough tears amongst us to replenish their souls from the scarlet consonants, curses, and crosses they bare. But this mad, mad love for the lonely is a longing for the last lovely lady, who will at long last lose her love to the lively lethargy of a lamentable fool. May her heart rest in peace.

Sweat Shirts, sweated words.

A conversation I cannot hear.

A door I dare not enter.

It is a cold day in December

and the heater bill is through the roof.

I know what it means

to be alone in a crowded place.

Another man’s voice pounds in my head

reminding me of another woman.

The essence of excess.

A tear drop my tongue failed to lap up.

The lights of the Christmas tree have burned night and day.

Another beautiful woman stretches eagerly in its presence.

People come and go, go and come,

always wearing a new pair of shoes.

Of all the women,

in all the malls,

in all of California,

I have chosen the obsequious one.

Pig tails, pony tails, buns, braids,

No child wants to be on the naughty list for Christmas.

But all Children are.

When is it acceptable to chew gum?

When you step in another man’s shoes,

would Gold Bond be advisable?

I am lost in the garrulous tones of a population gone awry.

Does anyone around me realize that I am a man of high aspirations?

We are the first penmanship to develop good penmanship by three,

and incinerate it by twelve.

LMAO

We no longer have stores, we have shopping experiences.

The cheesy Christmas music remains the same.

I want to ride a beautiful woman,

but they are all saddled by hideous men.

I write with one eye on my paper,

the other on you.

I am Walt Whitman’s soul

incarnate as an outbreak of ebola.

I can’t stand fortunate children.

They make for an unfortunate future.

Men should cry more.

Women are cruel, cruel beasts…

Whom I worship completely.

I love you, woman of another man’s fantasy.

You’ll dance with me, kiss my lips,

but tell me you are his?

It is unfair and unjust.

Kiss me one more time and profess that you do not love me.

My pain is yours, so why do you not scream with me?

If we scream together, we will scream no more.

And when we finally grow old, your wrinkles will be my joy.

Your aches will be my groans.

So let your hips touch my hips,

And I will give you all of me, all the time.

You may think you love your novio,

but I will make you my novia,

when you see freely what is true.

My writing may be chicken scratch,

but my words will ring in your ears

until the glass that separates us

is a melted, molded, sobbing mass on the floor.

I will not step over the glass because you will come to me.

And you will apologize, but I will not accept it.

Because from then on, our future will not be concerned with our past.

We will disavow the un-ashed tip of the cigarette,

and burn down the rest of our lives in the most romantic of forms,

consumed by the most juvenile love.

Over and over, every time more potent than the last. Every kiss like an injected sedative; every touch like a shot of adrenaline. We are lovers outside the box; friends within our boundaries; lost on the line which separates. Her brown cream skin and light chocolate hair are more intoxicating than the first snuff of a fine glass of brandy, or the final sip of a cheap glass of back-country moonshine. She tastes like angels ought to taste, though our actions are of a most condemnable nature. But we have a silent contract of iniquity. Whatever the consequence may be, the moment is beautiful, like a molten magmatic bubble in the innards of a blown glass work of art. It draws far more attention than the piece itself; its imperfection is its beauty.

She is gyrating and dancing, suderiferously swaying like a dew glistened window pane in a howling storm. My hands ride her hips, following her lead like the wild Sioux, bareback on his painted pony. What will be said will be said, and judgement will be passed, but we will not take back our actions, though we may hope to silence the repercussions.

Motherhood

She kept trying to squeeze the spoon between the toddlers lips, but the flesh was sealed shut, and his beautiful Buddha belly ceased to rise and fall with the initial breaths of life.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” she whimpered through gasping, airy sobs, “you need to eat.”

But the child’s lips did not part, his stomach did not rise. His fine hair still ran through her fingers in the same way, his little socks were still too big for his feet, but they would never grow in. Mentally, physically, and spiritually, the child remained an infant. Where does the soul of a child go? This was beyond our poor maternal sufferers concern. It belonged with her. His breath belonged to her; his hands, which once clung to her nurturing bosom, which now lay cold and limp, belonged to her. There was no man, there was no family. It was simply son and daughter fighting against a world she was thankful had once refused her the right to an abortion, but now found herself wishing her child had never been born; wishing she would have never had to suffer this irreparable damage.

The stars did not penetrate the barrier issued by the street lights, and there was no place for her to go that would make her child’s stone face any less grimacing. His eyes were shot open, but blank as a summer school board. They were windows to empty rooms; aquariums of lifelessness.

She found herself wondering who would stand with her to mourn this beautiful baby boys denial of life? Who would sing requiem for his soul? No one. Not one soul beyond her meager own, would mourn her child, who was a victim of circumstance; carried away with a winter chill, after being conceived in a summer heat. She thought back on those little memories she had to hold on to. She was dumbfounded by the passion endowed to a suckling infant. As her nutrients became his, so did her heart. And with his death, so went her life. To be indifferent would have been her salvation, but she was a heart in hand, scarlet blazoned sinner of the most compassionate kind. A tear fell from her cheek to the little child, and she leaned her head to the brick ball she sat against, feeling nothing but the cold winter chill, which taunted her moment by moment, holding her child’s breath, refusing to return it; it was no longer his, or hers. His breaths would pass through the lungs of the more fortunate children of the world; the ones who had been bred from the pedigree class, who were not to proud to breath derelict air; or perhaps, too proud to admit that it was not theirs to begin with.

A coughing fit enraptured the poor young woman, and she fell sideways to the floor, embracing yet another cold surface. The only blanket to her name covered her precious little boy, and it was ‘round his tender torso it would stay. She would not lower herself to the level of those people who live for themselves, living without loving; giving with the expectancy to receive; and caring only on the holidays. She shivered, coughed, wheezed, hacked, and hollered defiantly, but she kept her child warm. She hoped the biting breeze would know to seize her too.

You to me

     A begrudging woman has captivated my conscience, making it hard to think; hard to act; hard to see; hard to breathe. Choice words and chosen expressions are my only source of consolation, and both lack worth for wear, for when it comes down to the women I set my soul to, it seems that the only source of compensation I receive for my efforts is a precursory glimpse at a relationship: the bit that makes you believe your in love, and then it cuts straight to the bit that leaves you with spit in the eye, and vomit in the stomach.

     My only hope is that the female of the species is more deadly than the male, for that would mean that my anguish will be short lived. All you women who have plagued my conscience, your time spent in my thoughts is incalculable, the true words you will never hear from a better man’s mouth are mine, and the true care that emanates from my heart, mind, body and soul, are the truest you will ever never know. I am the man who has no chance, because I have too much respect to take my chance. Chew these words, and taste the bite of a good man gone sour, for it will take a mad woman gone sane to bring him back.