No Offense, Joe

I’ll probably jack off again today. Just like I do every day. Sometimes three times a day. I switch hands to avoid creating a curve in my cock I tell myself will surely take shape if I continue to consistently masturbate with the same hand. Some days I tell myself that. Some days I do. Though it doesn’t seem to help much. Not so much so I can see.

Someday I’ll be famous. And people the world over will sing my praises and name their white, black, blue, brown, yellow, grey and ginger children after me. And in my hometown a holiday will be proposed in my name. Important county commissioners will assemble to vote and decide unanimously to set aside every third Monday in March as a day of celebration … a day dedicated to me. The Lloyd Durley Appreciation Day. And numerous, nameless suits and skirts who run the varied town grounds around the world to which I’ve tread upon will experience a great swell of pride in their bosoms as they erect impressive marble statues in my honor and place them in their city centers. They will commission the great architects of the day to construct one continuous, state-of-the-art suspension bridge connecting all the vast continents, not just for the fuck of it … for me. And they will call it the “Lloyd Durley Had A Dream Suspension Bridge” and there will be plaques placed at every bridge crossing to remind people of my great contributions to humankind as they traverse into their new lives. Someday I'll bridge gaps. Someday be suspended. Someday I'll cross borders. Someday I’ll be famous.

But not today. This is not the day that old men will remember with fond gallantry their glory days of yore when they found themselves holed up in dank and windowless roadside bars drinking Dirty Mothers with none other than yours truly at three o’clock in the afternoon. And how, every now and then, another stranger would blow in, shake off the loneliness and join the outfit, bringing in with them the glint of outside summer sun shone streaming through the crack in the doorway escape plan to heaven. And behind it the indolent entrance of a balmy July heat wave wind waft. And these strangers, like the strangers before them, would fall instantly in love with my charming demeanour - its impact like ether - and pledge undying loyalty to me and my cause, which they’d say stood for everything decent and dignified, noble and true. And I would announce to my strange friends there standing around me so sophisticatedly that there is a plebeian aristocracy inside of us all. They would raise up their glasses in unison to me, applauding in one undulated ovation in the year of Our Lord: Mindless Reality Showstopper Brainmush Sixteen Aught Thousand and One Eighty-Two. I would summons them all, the meek and the small - my windowless children in the midday swill ashtray – and gather them all round my well-rounded feet, sat there clinking my ice float adrift in the remnants of another fine Mother. And the windowless strangers would each take turns standing to silently, reverently order a round. And then I would dig in, and reach back and purposely tell them a tale with such thoughtful proclivity. Someday they’ll pass those stories round. Someday they’ll hand my legend down. Someday they will - my heralded legacy delivered in verbal tones of awe and urban folklore festivity. Someday they will. They will drink in my fill. Someday I’ll be lifted. Someday be a sacrament.

But not today. This is not the day young mothers will secretly confide in their soap watching girlfriends the marathon lovemaking sessions once partook in with the greatest of lovers – me – before they met Ron or Bill or Larry or Joe (well, once or twice even after Joe) and how they could not walk straight for a week on end afterwards. They’ll reflect on these moments with tender nostalgia, confessing in hushed tones of whimsical intimacy they still rather fancy my face over Ron’s, over Bill’s, over Larry’s, over Joe’s (especially Joe’s) from time to time. When they don’t wanna fake it. When they want the real deal. And they will reveal all of this while the child they conceived with their Rons or their Bills or their Larrys or Joes (hopefully Joe’s) only a few months before soundly sleeps in the new painted nursery upstairs, and while Ron or Bill or Larry or Joe (most likely Joe) is hard out at work, slaving away behind a 9 to 5 desk or on an assembly line or down a manhole, bringing home the bacon to the family who truly adores him. The girlfriends will then flash sly smirks as they dip their seductive biscotti into slow cooling caramel coloured pools of café au laits, sedately slipping their freehanded fingers into the sop wet excrement of their daydream ripe crevasses. Unashamedly flirting with the curious pictorials plastered against the damp fathomed depth of their erotic crest sea swells; the massage of their much neglected yet lovely lady ponds now overflowing with sweet scents of glistened glean and the tiny trembles of internally played ecstasy. Someday those scenes will unduly unfold. Someday they will flow. Someday they'll be told. Someday I’ll be drowned in the round mound of pleasure and lost in the slither of slit satisfaction.

But not today. This is not the day that I will announce from the rooftops just who I am and what I am capable of. How my breath is the mist of another man’s clamour; how it calms the snow’s violence and murders the silence; how it mutes the night’s slumber entranced woken lunatics (plough mules for the harvest); how my torso akimbo in the radiant hymn division of none in particular makes dull-shined stars flicker. And how no one but me knew my inner said entourage of folly and strut and persnickety doo dah drē. And the mirror mirror on the wall to catch me if I someday fall. My encore rose flung curtain call. And how someday, just someday, I’ll deliver it all. Someday I’ll enthrall. Someday, this I promise. Someday, this I swear. But not today. No not today. This is definitely not a day to be spent trying to avoid the curve.

Sacred Palace Of Exile

Sacred palace of exile
Commute the sentence of our dear brothers and sisters
Forgotten POWs lost in the creaking timbered trenches
Of so many psychic wars
Their lux braille madness shining beneath the soft, analgesic distraction
Of their medicated smiles
Encourage them to breech your fortressed walls with seminal excitement
And incessantly initiate rape upon uninvited party guests
Rife with risqué righteousness and ripe beyond redeemable mention

There will always be critics
There will always be those who relish with a reckless proclivity
The right to speak and express freely
Their mouths afoot plodding latent pontifications
In heavy ponderance of majestic afterthoughts
And exacting their entitlement to idiocy fought for so ardently
On disastrous shores of feigned foreign promises
Reciting hypocrisy is not the only way of dying with your boots on
But it seems to be a rather ginger way of smothering the details

Her inquisitive, commercial love was no match for his battalion of silences
And she would weep, weep over the fact that he could be so cruel sometimes
His surly composure and duck-billed grin protruding outward
Like a presumptuous invitation built to bilk her fastidious desire
“Come,” it would entice, “come and challenge the demons that bide their time
Waiting underneath the cold and calculating embers of this seductive torment
Remnants of a mischievous fornication – so curious, these burdens of bedlam”

In the strange dawn of dreaming a new birth awakens
A crumbling aftermath of former suppressions now pressed into
Consolidated corrosion, diluted (by gum) from the finer manifestations
Conscientiously distilled from the one who blathers too many a loose screw
And drinks too much with too less scruples
I miss the days just before the Internet struck gold
When we knew how to communicate properly and w/ authority

Forgive us, ManMadeMonstrosity, for we know exactly what we do
In the confession booths of our embarrassment do we pretend to pray
For the blasphemous way the wicked world rotates
… and they still say we want a revolvolution
Believe when we say we’re too tired of all that
… enough of that crap
Enough of salvation and predestined, pedophilic divination
In the dark wells of our confessions lay our penniless virginities
Paid the price to cover costs, the quest we once pursued now lost
Quixote for your thoughts, your thoughts, Au revoir! To thee I sing

So many of us on this sphere, the billions rotting atmosphere
I taste the dead with every flick my split-forked tongue doth make
But even them more friends they know … I have myself no confidants
Abomination from me flows and purges all my ill-kept secrets

My phosphorescent everything I once was then and now am not
Again, I’ve lost the holy plot – again I’ve lost what’s dear to me
Who’ll set us free? A trinity? A man with tablets in his hand?
A boy who sat beneath a tree and in a breath achieved dhyana?
We were not born for death beyond the unexpected twist of penance
Like fish do squirm for drops of salience, so do we too invoke atonement
Infirmary, the cold blood leech of evermore adorns the floor
Exploring cracks of choking change, asphyxiating boasting severance

It’s easy to adore the lovely – the perfect body, perfect hair
But I prefer the souls less spotless, the soiled, unhinged and destitute
The brokenhearted make fine lovers; their helpless hope still holds on to
O Fortitude! What have you done for us that we can’t do ourselves?
So vandalize your childhood homes and drench your names in senile benzene
Strike the match and scorch aborted pasts that were not born to last

Behind the wheel I jockeyed for what one might call arcane position
Tore rear-view mirrors from their perches and sentenced all restraint to death
Headfirst and steely-eyed I drove until the centerline – a blur
Put the pedal down to make good time and ran over people I loved.