Intoxication...

There is a madness that creeps up on a man from time to time.
I can’t speak for others but mine resembles an affluent looking man from the 1860’s.
A tall black hat on his head.
A mustache bristling with charm on his upper lip.
Eyes that shine with a mischievous light and a quick smile that speaks of insanity.
It doesn’t take much for him to appear at my side.
That smile of his showering me in lunatic light.
His hand, firm yet friendly, outstretched towards me.
I take it every time.

All it can take is a word.
Spoken from soft lips. Wearing Whiskey flavored gloss.

All it can take is a look.
Seen through a spill of hair. Razor sharp with it‘s implication.

All it can take is a touch.
Light and electrifying. As fleeting as cigarette smoke.

And before I know it the red fog of his influence is upon me.
His madness.
My madness.
Our madness.
I embrace it.
Like a long time friend not seen in years.
Or like a lover pined for all night.
I let it crash over me and sweep me out to unseen horizons.
It is the truest thing I’ve ever known.

Conversations...

There is not one ounce of my person that believes in one ounce of the words you speak.
Simply because you speak in bulk doesn’t mean that the statements carry any weight.
You construct a hollow foundation held together by assertions of validity.
A frame work of convoluted and vague expressions stretched towards the world’s ceiling.
But as the winds blow and the rains fall your false edifice erodes away quicker than it was constructed.
A Freemason you are not. An ancient culture responsible for the Stone Hedges and Pyramids of our world, their skill and prowess, you will never possess.
You’re like a contractor who all ways places the lowest bid.
But please, tell me I’m wrong.
Use your inexhaustible stock of bullshit to build a wall that towers over me.
As I try to scale it the shoddy craftsmanship will lead to its collapse.
And there I’ll lay, buried under the weight of your empty words, unable to move.
Tired and worn down to my end from the effort I’ve exerted while you stand tall and breathing easy from the total lack of energy it takes to craft falsities.
This is how it all ways turns out.
You all ways stand the victor.
Even though I still hold your words in no regard and claim they have no power over me, I all ways end up splayed out surrounded by them as my only friends.
You may be a part of me, now and forever, but oh how I fucking loathe you.
I wish I could rip you from my bones and sinew.
Drain you from my heart and veins.
Pick you off of my skin and rip you out with my hair.
Take all of your insubstantial shouts and cries, all your worthless bleeding words and burn you with them.
I would speak at your funeral.
I would invite everyone we know.
Even though we held no religious beliefs I would find the biggest church I could.
I would lay you out in all your horrible and wretched beauty for all of our friends to observe.
Then, clad in all black, I would ascend to the pulpit, and read your eulogy.
Unlike your words, mine would hold a truth never to be found in anything you ever said to me.
They would be short.
For truth doesn’t need a full page of prose to affect it’s goal.
With my eyes clear and focused I would pay you your last respects.
“Here lie my emotions. Good riddance.”