Inside a Cloud.

Inside a cloud's foggy embrace, a mind can be at peace. The weightless shelter is creamy and surreal. One views life through a pleasant haze of smoky white purity. Breath comes freely from within a cloud. The air is purged of the social element, filtered out by numinous cloud layers.

Clouds float lethargically on the upper wind's gentle back, carried by its whimsical wiles, and never worse for the wear. Inside a cloud, one is at peace with transience. Most importantly, one comprehends his own undeniable atomic structure and its inevitably persistent breakdown.

People often mistakenly assume that the darker, rain-laden clouds are angry, but this is untrue. These people have been socialized in the old stale, conventional storybook style. What appears as anger to the layman are the mournful peals issuing from the clouds' teary throats. Take off your hats and display respect for those at the core of the darkest clouds. The men and women within lead legendary and profound lives.

I couldn't tell you what color my cloud is at present. The best meteorologists are indignantly baffled by it. All I can say is this: I am in love with my cloud, and I am searching for another cloud of equal temperament to merge with. Who can tell whether or not this aimless, drifting way of searching will be fruitful? Oh, the gambling whim of the winds that toy with man's fate!

Look to the world's ceiling this dusky evening and you may see my cloud galloping blindly across the atmosphere's bluish skyscape, wings outstretched and forever breathing.

The Present Life

The present life is a sensational tyrant. It is filled with the body's immediate call and the mind's petulant jibes. The presence of reality is the core of the present life. A domineering juggernaut in all senses. Tastes, temperatures, fatigues. Dehydrations, cleanlinesses, confidences. Griefs, enthusiasms, disappointments.

The present life is a breezing whim--it lives through expressive fulfillment. And, in spite of all the fashioned telescopes gazing toward the astrological future, the present life draws our most cherished attentions to its wailing infant face.

The Frail Life

What keeps us alive at our ripest age?

Routine.

Routine is the shelter of the gentle old. The smallest upheaval of this routine is deadly. It reminds the old about change. Though change is constant, the old seek to ignore its obvious presence. Frailty is their main quality. I see myself in the future, afraid, and I feel remorse. I lament humanity's inevitable degeneration. Let me outline an instance of this bad fact:

"A couple entered a restaurant. Every Sunday at the same time, they arrived. Ordering the same meal, the same drinks, the same salads, sitting at the same table, they maintained the same shivering equilibrium.

Until one day a vicious demon in man's form upset the elderly couple.

Cackling, sharp teeth glaring, he never brought out the salads they had meticulously ordered. He merely brought them their meals. Meals steaming hot, minus the expected the salads. Panic struck their eyes. Indignance followed. Simmering anger stewed for the remaining hour. It was a discontent the chink in their desperate routine continually kept lit. They feared and resented the slavering, conspiring demon who brazenly gloated over his triumph.

In fact, their entire evening was disturbed. Their sleep was restless that night. The next day, they were all fatigue. And their routine was further disturbed by their tiredness. All caused by the simple subtraction of one minor mechanical detail in their orderly and well-oiled lifestyle."

Frail! Frail is the future. Ugly, humiliating frailty! The strong bones of today will become frail. Frailing fate; the fate that frails! The strong mind does become frail with time. Shed a pitying tear for our frail race! For frailty conquers all in the mighty end!

But there is a bittersweet beauty in this morose scheme: at the point of greatest frailty, that is death and decay, our particles disassemble and reassemble to form strength once again. Our woeful deterioration holds the building blocks of new strength. And though all we know, all we are, all we have been, is destroyed by our incessant frailty, this same frailty gives growth to newness, whole newness.

It is a fact of nature--nothing more. It does not matter whether we glorify or berate, weep or laugh. Nature works invisibly oblivious to all. Nature has its own routine that keeps the frail world secure, and there is poor little we can do to change it. So only one question now remains, but you do not have to answer it immediately. It is the one question which has plagued humankind since its conception. I ask only that you think on it, ruminate on it, lose a little sleep on it.

Does humanity have a purpose or is existence meaningless?

Photographs

A frozen capture of existence. The moment in which time arouses memory.

What were we doing in this stilled second? What were we thinking? Perhaps of our appearance in future perusals? Will this picture make us laugh or cry? At present, we are indifferent.

Later on down life's timeline, with wrinkles on our faces, the pictures trembling in our aged fingers, we may reminisce nostalgically. Our blurred brains will fly back to youth and its pure hope. Foreign reality will break through with its dead dreams, lost friends, and hollow happinesses. The present world will then appear gray next to memory's vividness.

And, at that moment, we may be ready for death.

An Island.

I feel like an island, surrounded by the public sea. I look around, searching for familiar faces, but all I feel is the uncommunicative static of broken technology. Alone. The lovely aloneness of the mind-grazing hermit. Swaddled in rags; strained with stains of experience.

A white bird cries far overhead. Its lusty song enraptures. I whip my head upward, neck and eyes search for its gliding form, but it is nowhere to be found.

The white bird had eluded my very hungry, very blind eyes. I'd heard birds sing many times before. But in my mental isolation it sounded like the blaring trumpet of heaven.

I lower my head in self-pity-and berate myself for it. Self-pity is the worst sort of egoistic company. It flickers with false beauty. Pride alights like gasoline when the match of self-pity is struck. It burns too fast to satisfy.

The best sort of egoistic company is expressive fulfillment-the outpouring of one’s soul in some expressive activity. It may be found in art, sex, literature, athletics, etc. That which suits the individual’s proclivity becomes the most effective band-aid. Let the cuts heal beneath its soothing and protective cover.

Regarding The Storm

The sky darkens, and the people look to it with varying expectations. The lights are now set; the stage props prepped. The elements are all actors in the stormy theatre.

The smell of freshness mingles with my damp, greasy hair as I occupy my place in the audience. I don't know where I got my tickets from. Droplets alight on my dome and trickle down the strands in cleansing rivulets. The wool shirt my grandfather gave me gives off a dusky odor as the wetness leaves its texture. I inhale deeply and relish. My body is cooled. I watch the scene.

The rain patters upon the soaked pavement. Ahh, nature's ambulant drum roll. Leaves rustle in chorus. Thunder's bass opera booms throughout the great auditorium, shocking listeners with his control and power and sending car alarms berserk. My admiration for that powerful voice borders on jealousy. It can growl, submit, or rebel. It can frighten, pacify, or forewarn. There is a faithful friend in Thunder's echo. It helps keep us awed audiences sane. Oh, the immutable artistry in Thunder's voice!

And now for the intermission. A quiet interval in which the world breathes. Birds slowly chirp, discussing the scene. All is patience. Thunder mumbles softly in the star's room, but the wind continues to blow. The wind begins to softly caress us with her gentle fingers. Gradually, as the intermission ends, she picks up her pace. At the pitch of ferocity, the play resumes. In this way, she keeps time.

Thunder vehemently returns, bellicose and wild, and the rain responds with whipping torrents. A terrible moaning sounds in the air. The climax has been reached. Thunder roars with all his might. The storm's spine begins to snap from weight, cracking horridly. Yet still Thunder yells. Lights flash blindingly: white veins in the sky's skin. Louder, louder the opera rises.

All becomes still when Thunder's breaking voice bleeds, and he can sing no more. Exhausted, he slowly leaves the stage. Lightning goes after, protecting him from eager fans. The clouds follow alongside the rain. Last to leave is the wind, who counts down the seconds until the end. As it wheezes its last, the tender sun illuminates.

The audience leaps to its feet shouting applause. It was a standing ovation.

Fairy Shine

I feel deja vu.

A state of mind, and a religious phenomenon. All is silent and my poor mind speaks. I still try to figure what it says. Eloquence, yes. Love, no. Obscurity, maybe. What else is left? Bleak surreality.

Those of you who bleat money: Perhaps: your green souls are infested with wriggling maggots. Your soft fur coats should be exploited from below. The hierarchy you hypnotize us with must implode. Logical economics, it is. The philosophy of greed.

Do you vomit? Can you smell the puke of truth? My strong calluses mock your Lincoln-ish hypocrisy.

But don't worry. Your paranoia is ungrounded.

Its foundation is built on beach sand.

They disintegrate as our ideas go down slow.

Stay Free

Stay free of despair, stay free of the wan path that is moonlight. Live all you can. Put thought into all; Do not dismiss all. Fight vulgarity. Leave the cesspool. Grow wings and rise above. Rise above the vulgar, far above the Sensual. Fly to unknown heights and report back. Humanity needs rapport.

Love your friends and make amends.

Respect their chosen ends,
Wear strong sunscreen,
And tan in sunlight.

The Dying Cockroach

Oh, the way they shimmer in the dark. What kind of nocturnal creature shimmers in the dark? Is that not a call to predators? They shimmer to annoy me.

Roaches.

Granted, most people feel a certain abhorrence for the vile insects, but I am extremely disgusted by them. I inherited this feeling from my lovely grandmother.

The other day there was a roach creeping along my couch cushion, as though it were his, as if the vagrant parasite had paid for it with his own money. My plan was to utterly annihilate it, but the thing sped at staggering speeds beneath the sheltering sofa. And 'twas nowhere to be found.

My sleep that night was disturbing. I kept feeling its unusually large abdomen dragging across my hairy legs. It tickled with subtly alarming precision. Of course, this was only a product of my crazed imagination, but inside the living night it felt all too real. I shudder to think of it.

It.

I saw It,

Die.

It lay outside my door the next morning, twitching in the last throes of poison-induced death. I stood there, late for work, unshaven and unwashed, watching the front two legs drag the massive body along the grayish pavement. The back four legs were most certainly paralyzed. I knew someday I'd be made to crawl like that, but I felt no sympathy in my breast. That day was a mere speck in the uncertain future. The front of my sneaker rose to mash the evil thing while my heel remained grounded. My foot was poised for death: a power untold.

I left it there, delightfully squirming. Its pain was my pleasure. I felt like a Nazi running a POW camp. Mercy was mine to give, yet I had withheld it, for death is mercy. I had dangled it like a lollipop in front of a sugar-deprived child, and I felt no remorse. I felt scorn, mere scorn. I thought of it attempting to live as I was worked my shift.

The will to live is looked down upon by us who will other ways. We despise it; we sense its common weakness. We live and we give...nothing more.

When I got back from work the roach was gone--or so I thought. Upon closer examination of the scaly pavement directly outside my door, I discovered body parts. One black, curved leg. One antennae. Yellow paste that could only be roach viscera. Something had gotten that poisoned cockroach and, ironically, it wasn't me.

The evening sun cast twilight glows across the ground. Whirling shadows moved swiftly. I glanced upward and saw birds. Birds with sharp piercing beaks born aloft on countless air currents. Currents which rose and fell, shifting with natural unpredictability. So, this was the roach's death. Digesting inside a higher animal. A victim of the boring foodchain. Nothing interesting. Just an immutable commonplace.

I heaved a sigh inside and took a shot.

If I Were Eternity

Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I drowsily glance at the glowing clock. Its red laser lines glare 2:30 AM from the black corner.

"Is this real?"

Me alone in my small apartment awake in the early hours of the compromising morning. And this strange contraption steadily meets my gaze confidently affirming my shifting place in the vast universe.

"2:30 AM, huh?"

I take an empty beer can and throw it at the tyrant. What nerve!

Rolling over, I approach rest. The pillow is now uncomfortable; it feels as though it is deforming my heavy head. I ignore it in my fatigue, but the feeling grows unbearable. The pressure on my skull increases. I begin to feel my brain implode, yet I still do nothing. My willful paralysis becomes torturous. The nightmare persists. My head sinks lower, lower into the pillow as into quicksand. Its feathery form smothers me yet I breathe freely.

Then I start to ruminate:

"The pillow is an amazing and unchanging invention. Largely rectangular and soft, it is built for comfort, built for sleep. When it brings sleep, the body repairs and prepares for new hurdles. Yet at the turn of a dime, the pillow can be effectively used to murder, to destroy. Placed firmly over the nose and mouth, it cuts the oxygen flow off from the lungs. Death by asphyxiation. Diabolical, isn't it? This soft thing my head rests upon has the power to grant sleep....or death."

I glance up at the clock again: 2:42 AM. I hurl another empty beer can at its mocking face. If only it would stop laughing.

"Time's laughter is insidious and insulting. But if I were eternity, I guess I'd be laughing too. If I were eternity, I'd laugh myself to sleep."

Then I rolled over in my bed and began to chuckle.

Scraggly Month

Scraggly month after scraggly month drain away.
What accomplishments there are have been forgotten.
Concerns change with,
And into,
Doubt.

As I age,
I realize,
More,
And more,
How utterly isolated,
We creatures are.

Ten Cents is Two Nickels

The returned change clinked in the palm of my enclosed hand. Their warm, hard metal imprinted my skin. Ten cents. What can a man do with ten cents? Ten cents. Metallic circles to clutter my disordered life. Ten cents. Two nickels. Should I put them in my pocket? No, their perturbing ring would annoyingly resound from my jeans as my legs transported me to all directions on the compass. I would get looks, strange looks. Looks of knowing boredom. Sideways looks lacking compunction, reason, and legitimacy. Looks my jittery mind refused to receive at the moment. No, not in my pocket. Not that. Never that. What can a man do with ten cents? He cannot purchase anything. Two nickels make a man feel poor-especially when all he has in his pocket is ten cents that jangle incessantly, that remind incessantly. Better to have nothing, to have the promising silence, or the simple illusion of paper money, rather than the stark finality of ten cents. I wondered how the hobos did it. Should I give it to a hobo? What's a hobo going to do with ten cents? I'd feel self-conscious slipping two nickels into a hobo's bony hand. He'd look at me strangely; his hungry eyes would say, "All you have is ten cents? What's a square man like you walking around with ten cents in your pocket anyway?" No, not to a hobo. The hobo would feel insulted. I like to think that hobos have pride, but I know that they don't. Then I remembered that I hated hobos anyway. So I reconsidered the matter, and re-rejected it. To wound a hobo's pride would be like spearing the wind. There's no substance; it's all erratic.

Oh yeah, I had forgotten Mr. Franklin. Good old Benny and his Poor Richard's Almanac. 'A penny saved is a penny earned,' was it? But what about nickels? Benjamin Franklin said nothing about nickels. All that hot air about pennies and no nickels? Preposterous. And what about quarters, dimes, silver dollars, fifty cent pieces? This certainly was a quandary. Clearly Ben was an amateur entrepreneur. His ideas of currency and the self-made man are outdated; his capitalism is dead. "Hey Ben! What's a man to do with ten cents in the light of industrialism, in the shadow of the multi-million dollar corpocracy?" Two nickels wouldn't even ripple the modern economic pool.

I sat down to think about what to do with ten cents. It was a mild, overcast day in the year 1961. The indecisive clouds reflected the patchy indecision of my mind. Ten cents. I sat there wishing for a hot, clear day with a confident sun in a stern blue sky. A blistering summer day is good hangover medication. A sort of sauna treatment to sweat the toxins out. Too bad a man can't get into a sauna for ten cents. I remembered the classic old-timer in movies proclaiming the depreciated value of a nickel, let alone ten cents. I thought about all the Victorian era novels where currency was so simple. Jean Valjean would never have stolen the infamous loaf of bread if he'd had two nickels. He wouldn't have gone to prison, wouldn't have been sentenced to hard labor, wouldn't have been labeled an ex-con if he'd had two nickels. He could've bought a loaf of bread. But I couldn't even buy a crumb. My thoughts wandered, and so did I. The nickels I still clasped in my sweating, aching hand. I felt like a magician palming coins. I conjured the coins to the darkest depths of oblivion yet there they remained, hard and menacing. I walked along talking to myself like a madman. Should I toss them onto the ugly pavement? I stared at the ground, hesitating. Then, boiling at the pitch of my indecisive paranoia, I hurled them as hard as my feeble arm would permit onto the ground. They bounced and rolled, crashing loudly. A cop passed me on his bike and gave me a suspicious look. Cops have always made me nervous. I immediately realized that I had committed an act of deviance and frantically bent to regain the lonely nickels.

"What're you doing there?" he barked, staring at my trembling hands. I was shocked silent. I stood staring, mute, the nickels shining in my open hand. "I asked you a question, hippie." He was all power and menace.

"Picking up my nickels, sir," I meekly rejoined.

"What are you doing with ten cents?" He inquired. My heart began to pound. What was I supposed to say? Not even the cop knew what ten cents could be used for. He stood waiting.

"Well, sir, I was trying to figure that out myself." I croaked, my eyes beginning to water.

"WHAT KIND OF SMART ASS COMMENT IS THAT, BOY? I'VE HALF A MIND TO TAKE YOU DOWNTOWN AND BOOK YOU AS A SUSPICIOUS PERSON!" I envisioned myself in handcuffs. I saw my mother bailing out her criminal son. I panicked.

"No sir! Please! I was only picking up my money! Please, sir, I'm too young to go to jail!" Huge teary blobs streaked down my face. I humiliated myself for two nickels. I degraded myself for ten cents. I humbled myself for useless change. Hunched before authority, I cried and cried. In the future I would look at my conduct with shame, but now I was soft and blubbering.

Suddenly, the cop was in a good mood. His voice lilted happily. The beginnings of a smile twisted the sides of his lantern jaw. "Well, you're lucky I'm in a good mood today, boy! Keep your money close, this is a dangerous city. Now move along, Citizen." I was all thanks and apologies. I grasped my two nickels in a fist so tight my knuckles turned white and walked away quickly. Snot was pouring down my nose, but ten cents can't even buy a handkerchief.

Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. The encounter with the cop had changed me into a quivering child, and my mind had turned back toward adolescence. I recalled the times in my childhood when my friends and I had searched the vending machines for spare change. You know, in the unlikely event that someone would forget to claim their change. It rarely happened but, when we found coins, simple joy would cross our lives. Those were the piggy bank days, the days when we didn't know what money was. The days of innocent self-importance. Oh for the days of the jingling piggy bank! The easy glee, the irresponsible merriment. So much better than today.

My idea was to place the two nickels in the slot on the vending machine which dispenses change. That way I'd be rid of the circular nightmares and bring happiness to children still naive enough to dream. I imagined them finding the nickels and shouting in discovery, chubby hands triumphantly holding the silver coins high, future possibilities expanding before their young imaginations. It was all so simple. I hurriedly walked toward the nearest vending machine and slipped my ten cents in the dispenser.

Then I ran. I ran home. I felt weightless and free. What I really felt is indescribable. The way a prisoner feels when newly enveloped by the opportunistic world. Horizons expanded. I felt enthused enough to fly. Love of life sprouted in my chest. That was that. Time to celebrate.

I hopped in my car and sped downtown. I wanted my favorite bar and my favorite drink. Money was not an option. I had a wallet full of beautiful crisp green cash that made silent and peaceful crinkling noises. I smiled. No ten cents. No nickels. No coinage at all.

When I arrived at the place, there were no parking spots. This had never happened before. Still lighthearted, I swung into the street and parked there. A policeman was writing a ticket for a parked car directly in front of me. Feeling spry, I asked, "What'd he do, officer?"

Without even looking at me, the officer tiredly replied, "Parking meter's up."

Suddenly starting to feel queasy, I slowly turned and looked at the parking meter next to my car. No time left on it. Beginning to hyperventilate, I checked how much parking would cost. My vision blurred as I read the price: "Ten cents."

The man was in love with himself.

Standing before the looking glass, feeling his soul alight, he comes to the rational realization that the mind is selfish and that it is all he knows. The mirror reflects the resisting person. His abused face stares strangely. Shiny bags glimmer beneath his greenish eyes. They leer outward, badly supercilious. Worried. The night hates, morning looms. Obligation nags. The rising sun banishes vivacity's false feeling. Concerns rise like bubbles exploding on the natural surf. The bursted bubbles air their bad toxins. He involuntarily breathes them in, and gains nothing but life's karmic cancer. He brashly knows that he must participate within society's established tyranny. THE WHIPS SCAR. He immediately succumbs. Humility sloops his curved shoulders. Head down, back bent, his soul bleeds. Its red river alarmingly runs, flowing with perdition. Time has determinedly come. Now run, humanity, run.

Birds

The dew is fresh on my easy skin. It evaporates out of respect for the living, peeling off and ascending into the world's welcoming arms. Outside the angry wind blows, challenging man's sturdy shelters. The selfish birds' chirp destroys solitude. Their lithe bodies are hardly built to last. Hopping on their easy feet, wings comfortably tucked at their slender sides, they are unaware of generational conflict, and they live their brilliant lives without shame.

I of the Burning Eyes

It is I, the observing diviner, who prophecies your end! I of the burning eyes! I of the encompassing heart! It is I, watching on the sidelines and beating my breast! I of the wailing transfigurement! It is I, the most portentous Grecian seer! Listen and tremble. The goddess of wisdom speaks through my ramblings. Her words possess, hypnotize, and flow like a great storm, forever imprinting its passage on the wounded landscape! Take heed of the wild storm. Know that it is built to save the strong and destroy the weak. The weak will ignore and be overrun; the strong will become cognizant and overcome. To you of the jagged soul I screech: "Spoiled rapists of the ideal! Where does your window lie? In the east or in the west?" Feeling for your careers with blind and lusty hands, you drift in capitalist currents, bobbing in your horrid life preservers. But the brail map you read is terribly misleading. It will lead you to the cave of Profound Confusion. Inside you will be devoured by Rootless Discontentment, that vulgar beast, and your lives will turn gray and bleak. You will remain amongst the living but be dead inside. I see your bloated mental corpses floating in my crystal ball. You of the jagged soul: turn your path elsewhere! Your undoing is already written in fate's patternless fabric! Hurl off the yoke of convenience and begin life anew while you still have the chance!

Social Obligation

Life is lived only by degrees,
Like different levels in the varying seas.

We rise or sink with emotive weight,
Obscure particles, at any rate.

We drag heavy chains, our backs are bent,
Subject to the tyranny of the elements.

Terrifically awestruck,
We lack in luck.


Social obligation is my slavery,
To ignore it is true bravery.

To hold one's head high,
And let the social self die:
This is where liberty lies.

Wounding Pride

The glimmer of failure lurks with patient certainty.
Its awkward company checks impulsiveness.
He feels his identity pine away with ill repair.
Dire despair has fractured his pride's spine.
It is crippled now and walks only with the aid of crutches.

Yet pride's downfall always opens new avenues.
They exist outside of pure self.
Their roads are bountiful; the travelers friendly.
The house of freedom beckons at the journey's end.
Only the saintly live there.
The rest are guests who partake in the feast, breaking bread with ecstasy.

The Past

Life was never simple. Our memories of the past are deadened by its present strife. Alarming colors become drab with time, graying as they detach from the main vein. The love of bygone days is a mental shelter we hide under when chance uses us poorly. It is a false yet bolstering illusion. But such illusions help keep humanity relatively sane. If we believe in better times non-existence recedes and depression weakens, leaving room for some variation of happiness.

Bachelorhood

When I look at you,
Lusting,
I feel my said desire,
Tingle.

But then I realize I am,
Single.
And joy creases my face.

Another Job

Another job,
Away from oppression.
Another job,
To teach them a lesson.

Another job,
To gain some release.
Another job,
To guarantee peace.

Another job,
To live with respect.
Another job,
A hopeful prospect.

Another job,
Freed from stress.
Another job,
That my brain will bless.

Another job,
Done with corruption.
Another job,
Fleeing destruction.

Another job,
My mind is set.
Another job,
I feel no regret.

Another job,
Any place but here.
Another job,
Where necessity steers.

Dark Creature

The dark visage leers in the lightless corridor. Consciousness is confused by an imagination injected reality. To the somnambulent viewer, its image recalls dreary secrets: these deep devils thrive in the subconscious. They are barely realized but inordinately and irrationally felt: engines that rev mood producing smoke and steam, clouding the delicate mental atmosphere with stagnant smog. The expression is frozen, unmoving in time. Its unchanging nature adds to its daunting surreality. A sneer, mouth downturned like a wilted stem, glints in the slinking moonlight bombarded by sneaking shadows. The nose is hooked, angling nightmares. The eyes are indiscernible hollows in the blackness of night. They stare, registering all and expressing naught.

The frightened child trembles, sleep-starved attention transfixed on the ghoulish face pasted at the corner of the room. Too frightened to scream, too terrified to move-his young sanity is upheaved by overheat and exhaustion. The child weeps for innocent morning in the midst of this imposing evil that so ruthlessly questions the foundations of courage. Yet the moody morning refuses to listen to the adolescent cry and remains egocentrically out of reach. And thus the child grows alone, devoid of the sun's clear rationale.

What dark creature is born this night? It is pale, timid, afraid. It harbors death in a soul which blocks love with hard armor. The creature prays for light but is ever at home in shadow. Its sunken face hellishly haunts generations to come.

Haughty appeal gleams from her body,
Stirring the carnal imagination,
Searing the flushing blood.
She has a face of culture,
Painted perfect and thick,
A pearl of regret and lonely lust,
Pining for that throbbing thrust,
To vacantly end past loss,
And stop the pressure of father time,
In a moment's escapist heat,
Within the night's hot shell,
Dripping thick with sanctuary.