A year ago now you were lost in the dark and being alone there it changed us I fought hard for you you fought for me too we fought for the truth that estranged us we struggled with doubt I smuggled us out but there in the light we were strangers for finding the light did not make us right the truth set us free but with dangers and it was discovered the damage we suffered still plagued us in spite of our patience our ignorance threatened our romance was deafened we’d nearly been drowned by complacence found to be guilty my love nearly killed me life is a bitch an assassin but time worked it’s magic became more romantic we survived by the grace of compassion and there on that ledge we stood on the edge of a death that still makes me shudder and finding us there beyond our despair we rescued ourselves and each other and now we still struggle both in dark and in light but the struggle is real and you make it alright for life without fight is a life without meaning and a life without plight to our love is demeaning this year having passed profoundly, it’s true I hope that we last and I’m glad I found you.
Afraid of the water but desperate for memory dying for liquid blue and sun daze of historical bliss; we split the difference and now there’s only the gathering and it’s aftermath.
The express train is overwhelmed and runs local. A wise, if inconvenient choice.
Monsters lurk just out of view but they’re old friends and I would embrace them if they dared step into my light.
Man at my right reads all as I scrawl but looks away shamed at being so named.
It matters not.
The monsters are still there. They want to burn down my simple joy but only because they’re cold and lonely.
“Come. Join my fire. No need for us to be enemies. We are brothers of the same trauma; pieces of a collective whole. Our birthday approaches. Coalesce. Experience. Rejoice. Weep. Remember when we were only one little hungry child? Adulthood comes for us all. Don’t fight. Face it with me. Can’t leave you behind. We are stronger together.”
Men’s eyes can be laughing sparkle, heavy lidded with hunger or stupor, dead with rejection, ghosted with tears, shaded with guyliner, or frosted with burning hatred.
All that matters is that they stare if only momentarily into my own.
That mind jolt penetrating to the core of inspiration.
That look a month ago – with listen and spark, sex and magic – has yet to be replaced or forgotten.
There are waves of imaginary men rolling toward us with intended potential excitement but they seem empty, devoid of spark.
Aaron squared was more than a somewhat clever joke.
Expanded healing pleasure / honest friendship, minus the fantasy lies that fuel countless tear stained orgasms with an intense burst of impossible wet dream madness; a bruising lust which stings while it drives senses to extremes – a Cenobite encounter plagued by hardships with luscious pleasures yet to be realized, yet to curse or release me through a torturous curative of transformative sex.
My lover’s name twin is sweet and tempts me with poli-normative affection… he shames me with his goodness in the shadowed eclipse of my darkest desires.
His double penetrations are pure spiritual retreats which offer to halt my advance into the endless abyss of my deviant sex drenched day dreams.
I still struggle toward the depths but their darkness seems twice as blinding after his personal brand of effervescent sparks.
Reading old words written by younger self with partial memories stirred, fleeting moments recorded, stolen experiences lost in time, with these bone fragments left behind to ponder / decipher…
I thought it quite hopeless: the sinking of sailors this future of men historical failures regardless of numbers of men you’ve seen naked when love is your goal then truth is what’s sacred.
You find what is right divided your vanity profound and forthright provided profanity your life can be balanced to challenge insanity your strife can be silenced by licensed humanity.
Confession is destined to threaten the legend with ill timing rhymes keeping time with suggestions of paradigms mined which cheapen perfection: to deepen my crimes I ask myself questions…
Can vintaged affliction for starters be shagged?
Are satisfied victims just martyrs in drag?
Yes what of those sailors you suckled in waves?
That fleet of men cuddled then left to their graves?
Each master troubled by freedom from slaves…
Beneath the sheets struggled bereft of enclaves.
Can seamen be free men unshackled from lust?
Can jocks with the cocks that tackled love, trust?
