Definition of cog. 1 : a tooth on the rim of a wheel or gear. 2 : a subordinate but integral person or part.
Round and round the tooth of me goes. My path well worn in the rotating pre-ordained woes of a day.
If I squeak, then oil me so I shut up, for no one appreciates a noisy cog.
Push the wheel harder, so my momentum carries me away from thoughts that cause me to stray to the screaming in my head that always implores me to run the fuck away from this boring ass, numbing, plodding of a distant and dismal day.
I am integral though, I am integral
So thinks the cog in this spinning wheel forever at play.
They say parents shouldn’t outlive their kids, but should an older brother outlive their younger?
Much like a parent, the older brother directs, and protects the course of the younger.
Unlike parents, the older brother can also be a partner, a fellow perpetrator of many a fun misdeed gone awry. That is where bonds lie deepest, where intimate secrets are kept and held between a kin closer than that of the mother or father.
Sharing of sins, and the punishment of those sins, sharing in the joys and adventures that is youth in its whole.
You share a core with that little brother that none may know. It’s unspoken but known to the bone between you two.
To the Bone.
It’s honored, it’s delicate. It’s something that always dwells.
So when you see your little brother, dismal and seemingly damned, fallen and fragile, raging against an unknown foe and miles from the place in him from where he was once was, you know.
Where in the core that you share, now only dwells despair, you weep, and you weep, and you weep in the silence where no sees, because a man doesn’t cry, they simply don’t.
You know you won’t cry as he lies in a casket, all dressed and prettied up. You know you won’t cry when other’s speak of him in passing or come up to you with a hug, and “I am sorry for your loss”
You know you won’t cry simply because you have already cried so much as bit by bit of your little brother was pulled from you, excised with a sharp knife, and put into a blender and pureed to mush.
I love recalling the past of you when we first met, when the Universe nudged me into you, I remember your first smile, shy but sly, your first laugh, full and inviting. your body as it danced, swaying and in sync with my own. I remember your eyes looking at me with a lust of a thousand lovers, then later with love like a thousand poems I don’t want to forget the first time of knowing you and everything that pulled me into those eyes, running. I want all the songs that are ours to wrap up around us every time you walk into the room I don’t want to forget you the first time.
Because those first times always bring me home to you and I love you all over again just like the first time.
She can be full of fun and frivolity
or a chaotic mixture
of intensity and crazy passion
all in one day.
She may travel a trail in the
dark dark woods
wanting to be pushed against the rough
bark of a tall tree
as the sun peeks
as I give her a kiss on her pale freckled cheeks.
She’s exasperating as a girl can be with
adventurous
ideas such as she.
But I wouldn’t trade her for the world though,
for my own world pales next to her
and all her lovely curves, from smile to almond eyes, to her hips divinely held in my hands, oh, and her heart, her heart, the loveliest curves of all.
She is the softest of the softest, a woman that needs to be touched, she is a bundle of wanting that compels me to please her, every day, every hour, every moment that transpires.
I don’t wish to let my curvy girl down, to fail her, to not show her she is everything to me and more.
I adore her. I love her in so many little ways.
I want my curvy little Red always to adventure with, laugh with, & travel the many ways of this life for ever and always.
The cold is creeping as the flowers start to grow thanks to a weeping sky that often never lets up Yet the shy sun peeks eye intent then runs away as the clouds fly and dissipate their desires and the flowers grow as the cold still creeps.
Warmth rides the skin, plays with it, hugs the soul, the world sees potential in the what-if, but the cold creeps into their bones as they grab and hold tight to frayed blankets full of holes But the flowers are growing, can you see the buds, the ground birthing green?
Many beautiful rich colors to come even if the bold cold wishes to persist.
She discovered me in the darkness, coming to me wrapped in alluring music and undulating waves of red and blue light, she burst into me with a beckoning and a proposal to envelope her in all that was and all that ever would be beautiful in the universe. So I jumped, Fears falling away, Her soul enthralling enchanting, calling to my own that I had forgotten, and I fell and fell and fell.
She’s my mystic, my medium, my witch, and my fortunes come home to rest in arms wide open
I think perhaps I delight in you,
simply because there is a bite in you
a something quite not right with you
In the many fluid ways of you.
You draw me in with all kinds of sin,
but this poor delicate body can only
take so much abuse,
the fear is the itch that I scratch,
as it beckons
I answer, I bleed and bruise
my soul and mind continually
playing the fool of a tool
where your ways rule
ever move
of the day when we play
in decadent forays
of searing sensual
delights.
I meander down a shadowed road
upheaved, trees overturned and strewn about in my way, as a soft bird calls in the distance, beckoning me away.
It’s always the destructive, mingled with the mundane with you.
Drawn to mischief as the moth’s ass
is to a searing flame.
Who’s to blame in this story of us then?
Which of us needs to be grabbed and shaken, to fucking change
to learn to love “properly” in the mind
as the hand still explores the pain.
People are never simple.
All crying onions. Layer upon layer.
Until Time is forgotten.
Dark Francesca, they call her.
In the darkest of hours
they say to watch out for the
raven haired one,
for she’s trouble
…oh so much trouble.
Even as she claims
to have an angel’s heart
she’s got the devil’s glint
in her eyes.
Be wary, for she
collects conquests all
the while she makes
you feel you are doing
the conquering it’s
your soul she’s
devouring.
So make no mistake,
steer clear.
And Don’t!
Don’t, look in her eyes
lest you become
mesmerized
Yet even spying her hips
as she walks away.
is enough to enthrall,
with her pendulum
undulations lulling
your senses,
falling
falling
falling
under
as you fall prey.
Perhaps though
if you are lucky
enough, she
may take you home
and simply
use your body up
But if she takes
a fancy to you
more than that
well I’m sorry.
All bets are off.
It was nice knowing you
But there
could be
worse ways
to go
from this world.
Live fiercely while time abounds,
and stop biting at the bonds
of which you think constrict
you, for they don’t for a life lived properly
and wisely
constructed in the spending.
Hold time’s hand as if as a friend, love
every nature of it’s passing and it shall
slow down and comfort every second
of your days.
Create a world uniquely all yours,
from the infinitesimal to the grandiose
inside or without, to implode
or explode into a world of your
own making.
Sluggish temptations will always pull at the
the very fabric of you, a quicksand
to drown, a meandering path to muddle,
entropy to trap, as Order becomes
undone and Chaos catches you.
Sleep not with Chaos long no matter how
charming her bed is.
Revel in the importance of your life
love, love, love,
yourself and others
Roll around in that word love
like a dog playing in a
pile of fall leaves,
just being.
Never fear the outcome for a life
you have lived fiercely.
Atop a distant hill
sits a bright white church
constructed of weathered wood,
brick and mortar
crumbling at its corners
It takes the right or wrong eye to mark its edges, as either true and straight, or jagged as an age-old eroded crown.
Green rich pastures roll around its foundations, capturing the height of its walls in the folds of a land that endure its weight, pressing ever down while far below its hallowed grounds the roots have become diseased and begun to whither.
Through a dirty pane of glass you will spy a seeming man in shadow residing.
He is a slumped, disheveled figure, silhouetted by a dying day, chafed hands always holding rough hewed ropes secured tightly to the bell higher up in the proud tower.
He waits for the sun to fall to horizon’s knife edge, for everyone knows all devious deeds are best done in the dark.
Death has come to this cursed land and that man is Death’s sonorous escort, pulling on the bell furiously like a madman, as the pale rider stampedes through the town to take its rightful claim in the night on through til dawn’s first morning light strikes.
Yet, all the town knows Death shall surely return again when the madman continues his furious tolling in the bright white church high atop the hill.
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 