Foundations Of Disillusion
We are living faulty lives
Vomiting misinformed, ignorant opinions
With the passion of a naïve 15 year old
Going from the big screens
To the small ones
Enjoying watching people fuck
More than actual fucking
Diving head first into an ocean of drugs
To shorten the misery
Crawling on the face of this planet
Like termites over the ceiling
Heedlessly polluting away
Enslaved by capitalism
With bloated concepts of better political systems
As if humankind will cease to be
A profit-oriented parasite
Weak in front of lust
Addicted in all ways possible
All the while
We are good, kind
People with much to do
Much to give.
The Sweet Lioness
And I get off from her back
and I lay next to her
more alive than most of the time
but just not so into it anymore.
It's the passion that died
like a rotten corpse anchored
in the ground
from a state of less to even less
until nothing remains
from the feeling that once upon a time
pushed me against the shape of her
lips, the taste of her tongue
the feel of her vulnerable affection.
And she gets angry of course
and her cunt is still wet
like a dripping cave
and her eyes wide open
like those of a cautious cat
and her body moves
as she talks, it vibrates
and she doesn’t seem to notice
and her jaw is slightly clinched
from the pleasure that suddenly
broke free from her insides
“ Why did you stop? Why?”
and she looks at my dick
finally shrunk and defeated
trying to hide behind the balls
not so palatial anymore
actually like a pathetic instrument
and her hand falls upon it
like a spider searching for pray
but the absence is too big
and I say I just drank too much
and she says I always drink too much
and then looks in my eyes and realizes it
for what it is
“ You are going to leave me, aren’t you?”
“ Yes, I will.” And then I add “ You’ll be fine
In a month or so, you’ll be laughing about this
If not sooner.”
“ No I won’t she says.”
She looks at my mouth
and then back at my eyes
“ I love you, I never told you
But I love you.”
as if that means anything to
anyone else but her.
I remain silent. Avoid eye contact.
She steps in the bathroom.
I listen to her weep.
Probably over the sink.
I look at her plant on the nightstand
that died a few weeks ago.
I look at the mud..
I stick my finger in it in search of
But nothing is left there either.
The only firing squad
against boredom is
alcohol, so sitting here
on my porch, I pour
another glassful and down it
goes like a drop of ease
in an ocean of misery.
I can hear cats fighting each other
in the dark, throwing bins over
sliding, flapping on the tuiles
in a wild riot amongst the deadness of the night;
The racket they make is splendid and awful,
housewives open windows
mouthing the anger of their discomfort
down on these fine creatures
but they don't quail;
The fight is intense and climaxing
into an orgasm of a true sense of vitality;
Their blood boils;
they sound like horny, savage beasts
loud with anger and terrible lust
they sound passionate and evil
a demonstration of stamina
shaking off the stillness of sleep
under the veil of the black sky,
reminding to all the prematurely dead souls
to all the slaves of the alarm clocks
that life is not lived fully
it is not even lived half way
close to that.
And then they suddenly go quiet,
and silence returns
like a prodigal son
and it feels as if the turmoil
was never there
somewhere in the dark
beaming like a beacon
against the intolerable boredom
the debris of human beings.
The more unimportant you feel
the closer you are to the truth.