Humanized Übermensch.

Remember the last night we lay together on your bed. That bed that smelled of sweat and everything else that our bodies are capable of discharging. I kept kissing your nape and the curly stray hair on it while you led my hands between your legs- controlling, commanding, restricting. There were only us and your soft moans as you struggled to gasp for air.  When all the preliminaries have been played, I whispered “I love you” as close to your ear, then I kissed it. I know how you hate the sound of lips parting so close to your ear so I tried to kiss you as silently as I could. I tried to kiss you on your lips but you pushed me away and sat up. You looked at me, grabbed the sheet, covered yourself with it, and stood up. Everything happened fast.  “We are not in love; we are just infatuated with the situation,” you said. Then you left. We never came.

Sudden God

He sat under a flickering lamp-post waiting for death to ascend from the eternal pits of hell to claim the miserable life that he has sorrowfully lived. If, at the point of birth, he would have known that this is the kind of life he would have led, he would have gone back to his mother’s womb to strangle himself with his umbilical cord but such consciousness has not dawned upon him until life revolved around and involved other people. The crossings of suicide in the threshold of his intellect is barred by the awful fact that expensive death bankrupts the soul, the emotion, and the pockets of people who never knew how much he loved them enough to perpetuate life for their redemption from this bankruptcy. He watched the world in the sorry radius of his neck’s capacity, which was not much, and saw humanity in its lonely shape. He sat motionless hidden and revealed by the flickering lamp-post in the corner looking for answers, for a greater power, for reasons, for truths, for God. Groping for them in the darkness of desolation and suffocating in the solitude of not-knowing and of dying.

Write me a poem

Write me a poem about the spiral staircase that never ends and how you want us to make love on every tread.

Write me a poem about the little louse that has humans on its hair and write their names and their love stories.

Write me a poem about the fairy who cannot fly, who loves stones instead of flowers and worms instead of butterflies.

Write a poem about the most forlorn man who never cried or the happiest boy who never laughed.

Write me a poem about magic and things my eyes have not seen and I shall write you a poem about love and happiness as you have never known. 

The Sickle Moon

The hour was uncertain and the world was dark and cold. The commander reached out his hand for the sickle moon on the bleeding sky. The sickle was as cold as ice and the sky was as hot as fire. The coldness of the sickle crept from the prince’s fingers to his nape through his strapping spine. He plowed the world with his sickle to cultivate hopes, dreams, and men. He plowed for decades but his sickle remained cold for it should never be vulnerable or it’ll shatter like a brittle mirror that reflected apparitions of promised lands. It must resist the warmth of the eight-rayed sun or the heat of the sea lion’s breath. It must be cold enough to freeze pests, foreign or not but not cold enough to kill the peasant commander.

The peasant commander must be cold as the sickle moon; tough in punishments and fearless in combat. Yet he must dip his hands through the fire sky before he gets the sickle moon. The commander should be able to feel the scorches of poverty and usury before the comfort of power for no commander could ever understand the barest needs of his people without being part of the people and share their wanting, their grievances, their desperate attempts to flee from some of the world’s most terrifying horrors. One certainly cannot make whole that which he is never a part.

The commander should not stop until there are no more lands to be tilled.

Vixen Paradigm

She entered the smoke-filled room naked and fragrant, ready for hungry foxes called men to devour her flesh. The men reeked of sweat and penal anticipation, ready to attack the seemingly powerless vixen, each aiming at perfect trajectory a portion of her. Then there they were, five foxes violently, though sensually, attacking the vixen altogether. They had every part of her and she had one part of each of them; a tongue, a finger, a chest, a mouth, a phallus. She was crying and moaning, rocking and sweating. She was wet with her sweat and those of her lovers. Though her face was a marvel, it exuded beauty in pain and exhaustion as two men penetrated her together. She moaned and men heard, moaned and the stars stopped blinking, moaned louder and the dead gods awoke. Then as if the work of an Olympian mischief, her lovers, her rapers, her foxes, trembled and moaned simultaneously.  A lewd choir on the chorus of pleasure. When all five were lying down the vixen bit off each one’s throat. Then the smoke vanished instantly and red blood spilled all over the sinful room. 

When he writes the whole world trembles. His strokes are bitter coup de grace that murder women and children, like strokes of razors that cut through necks and chests. His stories are morbid and dark but he is read nonetheless. Those who read him cannot understand him and those who do cannot love him for comprehension voids veneration and love is extremely vulnerable and predictive. But fear and mystery have made him a hellish writer of divinity.

Vagabond Poet Prince

Decrepit ugly creatures crawl in my consciousness to thieve my joyful days with Juliette, my hefty pretty libertine. All those sordid eyes that glared and stared as her knight in corroded armour saved her from the smoke-filled whore-house of sin, passion, and emptiness have come to visit our awful love nest in the middle of the night as Juliette and I were feasting in the incomparable solitude of lovers— dreaming and kissing, dreaming and moaning. The bang on the door struck our naked body in shock and what was once hard went flaccid and what was once erect collapsed and what was once a stimulation of emotion and of lust became fear. And then for the first time this vagabond poet lost his language, a salvaged poetry and an annihilated prose shuddering under the sinning sheet.

Then they grabbed her voluptuous body, almost a corpse, (my Juliette, almost a corpse!) and took her out of the room. My Maria, my salvation from misery, my Mary Magdalene, my captor to hell, my Lolita, my innocent obsession, my Lizzy, my unconventional woman, my Juliette, object of this sadomasochistic love, you died a hundred thousand deaths because of me. Now at last permanently. All because I am the prince.