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I ever was a momma’s boy,
but ever too a two-faced coin,
to flip and flit my whole life through,
a man, a monkey in a zoo
of bodices and big bow ties,
of pistols, pistons, pigs, porkpies…
A beast, my burden: land, two hands
and teeth enough to ward that land.
A foul assault, a viral press
of souls against the soulless less,
a knowing owning, righteous reign.
Who would forestall advancement? Gain
an extra sense, a curse of heart,
and jam momentum? Throw back part
of himself? Keep the side that rusts,
the brain, devolve the side that lusts,
the loins, discard the side that trusts…

The soul. I am a yokeless egg,
a shirtless line of tightened pegs,
a banker with an empty vault,
a drunkard drinking virgin malt.
Now nothing sates me, stirs my joy,
but then, I am a momma’s boy…
And there’s my purpose! “Be a man!”
she cries at dawn. Weak-kneed I stand
and face the sun, a naked babe
whose every faculty outgrabe.
And once upon a moon so blue
she begs primordial, blood-soaked dues,
she bids me ravage, rape the corpse
of rabbit, fox, the man, his horse.
Her pawn, unlikely avatar,
resisting such commands is hard.
But what to do? Advantage…whose?
If not to seek, to strive…recuse
myself, with “life” to disabuse.

I stand before you, clothed and neat,
I’m gelled, I’m washed, I’m sweet. Complete
this puzzle: understand I would
not, could not, as a man, have wooed
another man off of his horse,
and there, beneath full moon, of course,
disarmed him, shed him of his dress,
aroused his fears, but flight’s egress
was missing? No. At unawares
I took him, disemboweled tears
of flesh, to let what’s inside free:
that’s all my momma does for me.
And it’s a brainless liberty.
I wish you all could know the glee
of thoughtless, mindless savagery,
to flee the madding bourgeoisie,
and see this not as guilt’s decree…
But innocence, uncaged, unleashed,
in this, I think, the fates agree,
no judgement made by man or beast
is fit to forget vanity.

So dare not promise pleas so pure,
as “innocent” or “guilty.” Lure
from out your deepest depths a wit
to damn for fun, or else acquit,
and know these tiny deaths are yours
as well, they’re in your stores and drawers,
your panties drenched, your jockeys stretched,
your worries dashed, desires fetched,
in every corner of your home
are prizes won by careless roam-
-ing, taken, thankless, from the purse,
that mom left on the counter: earth.
A stage where sex and violence play
the only roles the masses stay
to watch. To get what can’t be got
without a judgement. Cowards! Rot
in Heaven/Hell polarity!
There’s no such thing! There’s only me!
The complicated dog, the star!
How low, vicarious, you are!
You think that judgement hoists you high,
but there’s no you! There’s only I!
And so I bid myself goodbye…
Add a Comment:
vespera Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2013  Professional Writer
a knowing owning, righteous reign.
who would forestall advancement?

Who <- capitalization :)
sekatsim Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2013
your river runs faster. I like it. especially "know these tiny deaths are yours." can a "tiny death" mean sleep? or only orgasm? it's hard to remember all the metaphors I've been through.

and how are you? it's been so long. I forget about this site and then remember it every few months or so. "deviant for 8 years" hit me oddly strongly today. 1/3 of my life, now. has it ever occurred to you that, eventually, there will be more screenames and profiles online for the dead than the living?

anyway. I hope all is well. and say hi to simone, if you're still in touch.

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Submitted on
March 28, 2013
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Mature Content


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