rogue

Dirt
I get tired of people real
quick. Maybe it’s the mood I’m in-no.
It’s more them, never my silent nods
of disappointment
or the regale of thoughts that conclude
how my life has landed in this
place that hosts only idiots
with conversations that climax with
a repetition even Sisyphus would tire of.
We will nod with our fake smiles-smiling
on the whims of men
as the lack of humanity is cast down
into an abyss that knows no bounds
knows no end. And,
we will be all the better, for we are not
great creatures, but abnormal abominations
of the great and late being, dirt.
Conversations built like sandcastles
waiting for the tide of reality to strike their
existence; cast them down, equalize
any uprise with the existing sands.
People don’t deserve each other-they’ve
never known what to do with
one another.
A wall built high enough to close out
all connection, only simple slits large enough
to fit a snippet of a message, and the toxicity of
a love note-people-
like notes—too short for any real depth,
too long for a true connection with the text,
like a poem; they simply fit on one page.

Feign
I used to be a writer
actually, I used to write
poetry. I don’t know if I was
any good, or if they just smiled
at my rhymes.
I tried writing now,
but it seems like my touch is
lost.
Everything I write,
is a premature ejaculation of my
thoughts.
A story with epic introductions
mythical grandeur in each characters’
past histories,
a theme cast from unknown origins.
Fallen short, with a half-life
of only eight pages
stopping short of a climactic event
or significant abruptness that
haunts a character for the time
the pages make the story breathe.
It wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t
be writers block, you have to be
a writer for that to happen,
I never was a writer, always just an
imagination away from being lost
in the void of fantasy of a broken
world fixed only by my hand and
damsels being rescued by my cinema
effect-like talents
exploding through a building to save
the only child that will save the world.
that was me in every fantasy
and so my block
depleted into senseless candy, consumed
by my brain, distracted by the sugar rush
of imagination.
I would have once said, I’m not a writer
or a poet, or educated in any way-have
any activities, hobbies or interests
other than the pursuit of women.
Still, who am I to write about being a writer
do I read about readers?
I’m no longer a lone poet, or a solitary
man in search of his bliss in the wilderness
to write the great American novel
that will define all of humanity
and bring the change so many
look so forward to but are not yet
conscious of.
I am a social entity, with the
facade of happiness, and the glimpse
of a smile I no longer trust myself
is true. I alienate others,
and maybe I’ll alienate myself from
you.

Broken armor
Is this my reality
of broken heroes
and knightless realms
to go beyond the borders
of kingdoms blasted with
tyranny. Tainted to the soul
with nothing but dishonor.
What is my reality,
Lancelot’s betrayal, becoming
the plague that is sown within
the land of electricity
conveniently lighting the path
of twists and turns, making
no honest men to which
a woman can succor behind.
The weak wither away
nothing is done, they are
an inconvenience.
Hungering foes
disloyal husbands
where chivalry is a crack-pot
tincture of comedy as it
bounces around the table like
an appetizer never consumed

only reminisced as ladies turn
whores, and men turn steeds
as they mount the very nature
that they sought to be rid of
that Gulliver so true fought.
Blurred wisdom intoxicated with
lust over defense, to shield
honor as wrought as mine chain-mail.
Sorrow in our brothers, in our sisters
as they weep the world that is inherited
by bullied pretenders,
sullied wizards-
We are the knight, but have been lost
to the night as it consumes the essence
of a human heart and its grace among
the universe
injected with the expedient ecstasy
of a dozen sweeping kisses
to experience all flavors
letting not one drop register
a potent taste on your tongue.
The shine of your black knight tarnishes away
as the black steed atop the mountain crest
crumbles to the earth
replaced by a pale horse.