Rage

Rage in my blood,
Rage in my heart,
Rage in my soul,
Is torture in life.

Meditative.

Mesmerized in the moment. My brain feels weighted but free. I am submerged in an ethereal vortex that is refreshingly murky--a psychonaut's dream. The sounds of reality reach me and register, but I am joyfully indifferent to it all. I wait as the clock ticks, as the seconds pass. My soul is poised to sear through my skin, exiting through the seams, and stretch out through the unnatural universe.

My neglected stomach calls out in anger.

It pesters my insides.
I'll eat soon enough.

At the moment my mind is drawn within itself in the most sublime way. Basic concerns swirl around me but are minuscule in size. They can't penetrate my meditative state. I feel a power surging in my blood, riding on my breath, firing in my eyes.

Complete self-control.
Divine courage.
Perpetual victory.

My enemies are toppled, humbled in the dust, groveling at my feet, terrified of my strength. But in my sacred state I display mercy and clothe them in forgiveness.

I see Wisdom when I close my eyes,
Truth when they are opened,

Beauty in my brain.

How long can this sainthood last?

Fear

The stupid never fear. The flashing siren never wails in their adrenaline. They are oblivious to harm. Their skin rarely feels fire. And when it does the pain registers, but the experience evaporates.

Only the smart know fear. The memory sticks, the lesson is learned, the trauma is born. The experienced are cursed with an insane anticipation. They don't rush headlong into fearful scenarios. They run away with wisdom's legs.

Beware of the intelligent insane. For they are cautious, and their experienced rage has become focused. They are able to direct it logically. Its directed energy always hits its target and destroys it with much force.

Into Your Eyes

I look into your eyes,
And dislike what I see.

There's a flame beneath,
That dryly crackles,
Obscenely wavers,
Shiftlessly consumes.

Your eyes are parched,
Behind your eyes lays thirst.

The land behind your eyes,
Is inflicted with drought.
Your hope of rainfall affects me.

You know that I am heavy with rain.
It is this trait that brought you here.
Are you so sure you want this rain?
It would lift the drought but bring about pain.

If you choose that roasting pain,
Your thirst will exit,
But your mind may buckle.

Either pop your umbrella,
Or extend your cup,
Because my rain has begun to fall.

Mother Martyr.

She has the eyes of a martyr.

Glassy.
Far-seeing.
Vast.

The eyes that once held pain,
Now hold enchantment.

For there is an ethereal contentment,
Wedged behind those illuminating orbs.

She derives her joyful strength,
From the lovely life,
Hammocked in her cradle-arms.

It gurgles,
And coo-coos,
In tender adoration.

I wish you could live forever,
Mother Martyr.

Bored Women

What a ruckus they make, distracting my mind, interrupting my flow. So many tittering voices, loud and gut-wrenching. Infecting my ears, boiling my frustration. I can feel my annoyance take form in my head, a sweaty ball of panting emotions that demand attention.

They are like birds in the morning--tireless, ceaseless, painfully perky. They are like mewing cats--the one trying to outshine the other until the noise splits heads better than cop clubs. They are like Catholic children at recess, screaming out their suppressed identities at the designated hour. They have waited for this break with rigid minds and nervous fingers.

These are the bored office pets whose mundane stories and wrinkled calves populate day jobs. Their minds are old; their voices are loud. Too much coffee has revived their systems, and I wait for the silent crash with a half-smile.

They are quiet now, and my creative consciousness tentatively begins to churn again. Yet it remains fearful of another thunderous interruption. It hates to lose what it is in its grasp.

The span of solitude has lasted long. With every moment, I rely on its constancy. My strength returns. And on my confident face a full smile may be seen.

The Flow of Fluids

Feel the release,
As they rush with insistence.

Feel the relief,
At their happy egress.

Rushing currents,
Cleave the bodily landscape.

A healthy erosion,
A deposition of sediment.

The screaming waters,
Carry crosses on their backs.

They run to the basin,
To cast their religious burdens,
Into the toilets of today.

Then they are purified,
And I drink them again.

Let the Smoke Clear.

Let the smoke clear before you run.

It blocks your exit, but your situation is not yet critical. Stay put for the smoke billows thickly. It blocks your path.

Think of the men entrenched, waiting for your blind body to shapefully emerge from the fog!

Think of your steps, confused and stumbling, as you make your way through the black buffets to certain death.

Think of your eyes burning red, the salty pain wetting your lashes, tears holding there, afraid to drop to the terminal pavement.

Think of your lungs rebelling as your body inhales, as your pretty face bulges blue, lacking oxygen.

Wait with me,
Until the smoke clears.

Wait with me,
Until you can see ahead.

Wait with me,
Until your path is planned.

Wait with me,
Until your senses purge.

It Seeks the Nipple.

The wind blows her straw-like hair as her husband lays dead in the dirt, spilling out his essence, his eyes glazing as his lover's wails grow louder. She clings her silent babe to her breast in protection, but it seeks the nipple, eerily undisturbed by the father's decease. It hungers, for grief does not affect this developing human's demanding stomach.

Her tears drip onto the baby's bald nape as it lustily suckles her pink nipple. The babe grows as she drains, as her life melts into another, as her grief rules her mind. Her spawn's belly fills with delight and the body becomes sleepy. And the bags beneath our mother's eyes swell ever so slightly.

This is growth,
Our lovely thieving growth.
It is infinitely old,
And it is eternal.