Busy streets Walkin the Beast
Buried in the influence of man,
Stumbling around through mazes of identities
Overflowing with inspirations and stigma and hormones and harrowing.
Catering to the constant surge of uncertainty,
Unsure and reminded,
Deliberate to the jugular,
Of wake ups and caffeine dreams suffering for the hunt of power.
A soulís uprising,
An ability to cheek opinion,
To pick and choose lifestyle;
Gauging space without haunting flames,
And go straight into the genital to blossom there from.
Swarming with pleasure,
Unscathed by the realms of guilt.
Barricaded within walls for the fear of ever fresh dissatisfaction,
Fangs of the suck and followers of the void-
Hands in the formation on a knee guided by vulnerability,
Focused on the silence,
Reaching for an undying light;
A penetrable force of nature that judge ye not.
Carolers roam the bitumen,
Carving the stones with billions of paces,
And bricks that were laid so long ago;
That felt so many feet before
And have gone cold so long ago.
In the frozen hours
Of this lifeless arena,
A flock of pigeons nest
Digging into eggs to taint the seeds;
To smudge their chances for choice
Who's smothered by guidance,
And the inoperable brush stroke of chatter's
Clouded infernal wash of possibility-
For the son of this earth is taught
By the ceremony of fame and wealth,
Glued-in to the glitter patterns of dark rooms
Filled with minimal beats.
Antique-like smells linger along my skin,
Reminded of a fresh mint bush
Which dripped its neighboring limes along my palette.
Notes of sour pleasure trickle in from a pheromones instinct,
Striking chords along the spine,
Sparking the inevitable release of oneís howl;
As humility is forgotten and naked truth is rejoiced-
Channels of lust and filth and bitter youth tremble through the senses.
Watch tower guards
Who press undeniable truths they believe to be word;
It is time to rise up and provide and establish land they say-
Instead of just washing across it with hope and dexterity.
It is time to give in to the unruly Deans,
Whose fingers rattle scarcely without clause
But for another manís diction-
Instead of this persistence towards dreams and vastness.
Bathing in the ivory soap tunnel of a love nestle
To fornicate harmony in a world apart,
Images and feelings match with emotion
As hard dicks rise from their reminiscent euphoria.
Handling that body of soft skin and chiseled dimples,
It is the art of everything;
It is one piece of abundance;
A part of society that shall not be manufactured,
It shall not be artificially inseminated
And while we contrive to find it,
On the gloomy street corners of Teirgarten perhaps;
Empathy is not derived from semen,
Self-love and orbital love are not derived from the orgasm,
It is the unity of all things
As real as each kiss feeling like the first-
Like dripping saliva that moves across two unsuspecting tongues,
Whose eyes become so alive and vibrant with color,
Shaking the blackness,
The undying determination towards resentment;
On impulse to walk on the cloud
Or any instruction or intention.
Caught like a star,
Hands and feet pressed against the steel for survival,
Spinning in the hubcap blues for time has passed
And matter not what has happened
Inebriated and stoned or sober as the arctic cold;
Forget the elements that varnished this floor I graze,
For the ailments have been told
As scars of guilt
On the embankment where we sat
And I did but stand and rumble anguish.