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Poetry and "stuff" (non-erotic)

Sadistic Bastard

Sadistic Bastard

No Mercy
Enjoy, or not.

-SB




It is ritual.

Place the plugs in. Then the outer protection. Don the glasses. Do this
with the case closed.

Open the case, lift out the contents. One piece settles finally into the
empty place at my hip, I leave the strap unsnapped. The other pieces gleam
dully. Sort.

.38's here. Magnum's here. Start with the .38's. Put the extras back in
the box, into the case.

Lift the weight from the hip. A lever, and then the cylinder is exposed,
empty. Six holes of potential, each filled in turn.

I dislike the targets they have here, so I brought my own. From man's
silhouette to the more sterile, precision lined circle and marks. I am not
practicing killing today. That's why I'm using the .38's. This is an
exercise in skill. I send it down the ropes, fluttering as it runs from me.

The weight is back on my hip, the extra grains and grams making it alive.
The idea here is that of the oiled armature. Linear, smooth. The organic
suspended for a moment, let out half a breath so my lungs can be still.
Move like a machine.

The Machine does it's work. Smooth, lift, pull, expect the extra
resistance. There is double-action in the hands and in the weapon. Lungs
relaxed. The aim point just slightly high and to the left. Squeeze...don't
jerk.

They are down range now. Decapitated, the heads in the wall, the empty
bodies in the cylinder, the filling now smoke in the air. Six holes in the
paper. The weight back on my hip.

The new ritual. Lift, load, holster, breathe...shoot.

***

The Request

I stand on high
tasting wind
knowing that a certain way
to not get something
is to ask
but even so:
I shall wish for wings

Foolish or practical?
maybe this time the world listens and has mercy
Grant me the ability to soar

If it does not listen
Then it is of no matter
I jump anyway
If a pair of wings does not appear
There is always the possibility that this is a dream...

**

-SB
 
One more:

Ghosts


Do your ghosts walk with you?
a caress to remind you of a night long ago
do they still whisper in your ears?
sighs and silk and warmth
Utterances of surrender and love

Do your ghosts love you still?
The memories they stir,
do they make you smile as often as they make your weep?
do the shadows of her feel like
they don't want you to cry?

Do your ghosts kiss you?
Are memories of them still on your lips
tasting sweet, not bitter?
Echoes of those moments
perfect with her...

Do your ghosts watch you?
wandering in the back of your mind
will she take joy in the life you have now?
Will love win out
Eternal that you are happy?

***

-SB
 
I enjoyed all of these. It is dificult to read your writing and not be thinking "erotic" in the back of my mind.
 
The comet
posted Fri, 16 Nov 2007 11:15:16 -0800

Deep in the quiet dark
Yet always bound
the string invisible, but never without it's influence
I swing around again.

Every time it costs
For a flash of brilliance I give life-blood
A coma and glory of tail and halo
Instinctive and lawful response to the warmth of that which I am bound to

One day the blood and even dust will be gone
but the tie still there
An empty husk
Still on the journey.

Maybe when she ends
Growing huge on her internal needs
As bound to her laws as I am to mine
I may plunge in and pierce the corona

And then there will be the merge...
or will the husk be so iron infused and rocky
that even after the Giant and the Nova
I remain in orbit?

In the end, could it be fate that I circle endlessly
Should I not enjoy the time when I can be seen?
Light up across half the of the night sky
Unseen eyes wondering at what I am.

-SB
 
************

Is it really strength
If you can be knocked off pointe'
So easily?

Is it really resolution
if something so old
was found again, rotting?

The granite monolith
On the surface so solid
is honeycombed.

This may be the human condition
But in me
Others invest in my illusions.

I do not want to be false
I do not want to be less than what I present
so I said it here.

I am all of the things they see
and I am less
Because I let the pain stay inside.

To them, I am unaffected
I hike alone
so I can cut the skin on bark and rock privately.

There are times
that I wish I had another discipline
A difficult pilgrimage.

Let me fire-walk
Traverse a glacier bare-footed
Practice the life of some mad prophet/hermit.

I have unfinished business
sirens call and child's needs
No time for locusts and wild honey.

The Sin of the Master
Is not knowing what he wants
I did not even know back then in my ignorance.

But I know now.
I'm not guilty of it anymore
but there is no way to set it right.

I am what you see
and less
and more.

I have been taught
that what a woman really wants
is to be known.

I am male
I do not want that exclusively
Instead, I want to create.

I wish I could sculpt
"A variation on 'The Walking Void' by Noguchi"
would be my first work.

I leave it to you
reader or slave
What do you think you see?

*********
 
Never in a million years...

Never in a thousand years
A million
A lifetime of a soul
Did I believe that Love was not strong enough
to conquer all

And yet I am faced with the fact
and the greatest pain
that it is not enough
and that love un-returned is not romantic
it is sickness

It is a double blow
Not only to sit in my own grief
but to watch what I once loved
spin away and downward
A leaf falling into the furnace

I was good to her
I was good for her
and I wonder what in the human condition
makes us push the good away
in favor of the flames

I watch her burn
and my own tears are nothing to the conflagration
But I watch because in a way it's easier
to keep my eyes there rather than on the smoke
that surrounds the limb I am on.

When I let go
dry and light
maybe I'll soar upward on the heat
rise rather than fall
to drift over to the stream that flows

to the sea.
 
Consumer said:
Never in a thousand years
A million
A lifetime of a soul
Did I believe that Love was not strong enough
to conquer all

And yet I am faced with the fact
and the greatest pain
that it is not enough
and that love un-returned is not romantic
it is sickness

It is a double blow
Not only to sit in my own grief
but to watch what I once loved
spin away and downward
A leaf falling into the furnace

I was good to her
I was good for her
and I wonder what in the human condition
makes us push the good away
in favor of the flames

I watch her burn
and my own tears are nothing to the conflagration
But I watch because in a way it's easier
to keep my eyes there rather than on the smoke
that surrounds the limb I am on.

When I let go
dry and light
maybe I'll soar upward on the heat
rise rather than fall
to drift over to the stream that flows

to the sea.
Click to expand...

That's hard stuff Brother.
 
Words in my fingers
*

It's like turning on a broken faucet

The water dribbles, uneven and unpredictable

cascading in fat drops over my fingers

The water becomes an afterthought to the rubbing

Even with this, when I'm done, I am at least closer to "clean".



So are the words in my head

inconsistent, unreliable, in different sizes and textures

but all made of clear thought and letter

they all carry away the dirt of my emotions

leaving me with a white, scrubbed outlook (at least on the surface)



So I write for the sake of writing

it is part of me, as much the purpose of me

as is the purpose of the pipe and the stream

carrying it's burden in shapes and floods

Accepting of the deluge and the drought both.



I write of writing

And, most oddly, this is not a terrible thing

Not a boast or vanity to write

because my fingers are the vehicle to the words

And there is no fault in them.



I think of my favorite teacher

Solomon in his later years

Writing of vanity and wind and seas and regrets

His wisdom ultimately becoming a thing for words

splashing in his tale and revelations



I feel no guilt for them

Look at the canyons and raveenes

carved by laughing water

I cannot be blamed if soft bone and flesh gives way before this force

It is inherent.

**
 
Machinebeat:

I am the engine

bronze and brass and iron

pushed by fire and steam

a creature of pressure and friction and sharp edges.



I can feel the mechanism

pushing, pulling, spinning,

and under it the slow drip

the imperceptible bend of fatigue.



There is no engineer

no wiper or oil-can to ease the movement

no hand upon the throttle to sense that arrhythmic noise

no one to tend to that which is slowly moving out of place



So the mechanism continues

fed by the fuel of anger and pain

unable to stop

the Drumbeat of my own destruction in my heart.



I am the thing

the tortured thing that will see the rails bent

the bridge is out

the gauge is pushing into red



It is my nature to go on

I cannot stop short of tearing myself apart

There is no "stop" permitted

I will drive on until that one critical thing gives.



Ware you all

sitting far away, hearing the mournful cry of the whistle

the echoes of my breath ringing off of the valley walls

that strange quiet before the crash.



I will drive on

pistons and turbines and fire-box and the proud prow

slicing through the useless air in front of me

The finger of light reflecting nothing ahead.



You may well wonder if this fatal design distresses me

it does not

for in those last moments I'll push faster, hold the whistle down, drop the muffler

The last act one of sound as much as movement.



I will not die

I will live on in your memories and dreams

That sound, that sight

You will remember me.
**
 
I read this the day I was priming the auger in my pellet stove. I was trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

How did you know?!
 
I made love to a machine once
never again
I need
human
flesh
and blood

Or I mean, you know, just a human hand to hold or something
 
On that day that I was creating a fire in the stove
I was creating a separate fire,
one that did not warm or comfort
but one that was destructive

I could have burned my house down
with the rage that filled my heart and mind

the fire balls I threw out
why am I telling you this?
Why would I share this?

I feel ashamed that I thought
such things of her
my sister
cold as ice

she just comes
from a different territory

we have yet to understand each other
It is as if she is an Eskimo
and I am a hula girl

not very many things in common
except the same parents

raised in different lands

the grasshopper and the ant

not even a smile is cracked from her lips

the pain and the agony

why?
 
I felt like that once. They say it comes from being oppressed. But then they lie. They always lie. They lie the way that rugs hug the floorboards for solace. Hardwood is always naked. He spoke it with a tear in his throat. I think of him sometimes and i cry. But that is past tense and it's time to move on. I saw a crocodile swimming on a greeting card tossed in the moat.
 
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