blood on my brain

there's a line

a few in fact

that i forget

the relevance

so resolute

in my affliction

i take a moment

turn it into

a lifetime

of positional

sadness

no. emptiness.

fill it with what?

i think i need

the parting

the thighs

the wanton

the barrage

my senses

shot

hormonal depth charge

there may as well be blood on my brain as i give in and give way to greedy covertness/covetousness

slay any notion of being a self respecting man in a world designed to corrupt continually the minds of men and women

i am not the solution

am i part of the problem

i wince and feel the disillusionment

the detachment falls away

giving room centre stage to the main event

unable to peel my eyes away

i am romantic. this isn't romance

i love sex. this isn't reality

connection to something other than my loathsome self, please.

but, this isn't connection. it's butchered and murdered. poisonous scintillation branded as entertainment in the name of... well anyone. the names and faces change, the bodies and the juices all change, even the places change but it's the same. masquerading as harmless titillation with pert nips, responsive hips and gyration the eyes sell it as much as the slick lips and piercing members. the moans are loud and the love, the passion hushed to the point of absolution

to commune with the sadness

that cliched silent sadness

patient it perseveres

gorges on guilt

ravages regret

a fervent fever dream of disassociation and disconnection from a line or two

i must fight this sickness

find a cure

i must fight this sickness

*

thanks for reading!

author's notes: final lines reference "Pornography" by The Cure, the title and last track from what is probably the band's darkest album.

this was written while thinking of another piece i wrote that i am extremely proud of, called 40% Proof.