‘It's beautiful, I would say, I wouldn't have it any other way, If I said different, it would be a lie. ‘
- Jaded, Operation Ivy
In the woods of my fantasy,
Lotherien style with elves,
almost a river.
A white waterfall
washes over
a low cliff
framing the serenity
and inner peace of nothing.
I watch koi fish mate
In a small bay,
beauty, nature, life.
With bare hands and naked anger,
I’m feverish and fearless
and cutting away
at the hair and fat
of a grizzly bear, selfless
crazy sharp claws,
scraping at my remains.
I burn everything over cinders,
in a pit of past battles.
Animal skulls,
ugly, stained by filth,
watching me brood,
trapped, with in a circle
of immolation,
I am the haunted.
Whisper from your young faces.
Oh, pretty smiles,
am I cute, enticing?
A luxury hotel,
we were brought up in
a glass elevator.
Alcohol and coffee
provided a relaxing distraction
from inner turmoil,
forcing tunnel vision
blinders refusing play time,
steel wedges forced
into the brain,
too many choices,
like holding out on school,
delving into the Self
learning from mistakes.
The pool by the hotel
heated and clear,
a lake by the woods
black and cold,
these summer hot spots,
watch lovers
change into swimwear,
jumping out of the ocean
of directed consciousness,
no longer black and white,
our actions forgot the backup
of inner intentions.
Sitting on the bamboo mat,
sipping fragrant tea.
A studio-room
full of books,
a clean chat
about personality,
where are we going?,
now that we’ve doffed off the robes,
sharing silence with candles,
feeling bodies with the 6th sense,
emotions keeping quiet in the back seat.
Never slutty,
nothing taboo,
epiphany orgasms
for intellectual purposes,
to be able to conceive
of what the human brain
can not be expect to understand.
To walk and be triumphant,
hand in hand with
homosexuality and masturbation,
piercings and anal plugs,
I bid fare well to lost lusts
while walking alone and centered,
no time to worry,
the winds blows and clears the pores,
the sweat of life drips away
from leaky faucets, no longer an irritation.
Feeling the body,
starting from the neck,
slender, pale and taught.
A little anxious,
but be patient
my hand,
squeeze the breast,
firm and aroused,
her curves unexplainably attractive,
pressing over the stomach,
caressing the softness,
the plateau of flesh
before the fertile valley.
Chained up against a wall,
wide awake and scared
my penis was hacked off
quickly but the knife
was not sharp.
My scalp was shaved,
all body hair singed off.
A black wig glued to my skull,
a dirty training bra
to wear over bloody, cut nipples,
I look at my diseased body,
my captors in black masks and robes,
religious surgeons, they chant slowly
but why am I in my bedroom,
the warehouse of past lives,
I feel another rebirth,
another rough fucking
Masturbation is a cast iron
bathtub filled with menstruation blood.
Virgins thinking they’re innocent,
never believing
in the volition of pleasure,
in erotic sensory impulses,
riding them like mechanical horses
by drunks in a Texas bar,
intoxicated by the fear
of death, a wasted life,
Sunday mornings spent
like money for cheap beer,
rubbing his body for warmth,
looking for the next lay,
never for love,
just to quell the lust
that hides like lizards
under rocks in the desert,
escaping at night,
a massing like roaches for quick copulation,
using clean sheets to distract
from lack of an emotional relationship.
Soulless orgasms.
Cigarettes inserted
into dirty, naughty places,
single mothers
would be angry and jealous
to think that they missed out
on what their daughters
are doing with older men.
Cucumbers, Champaign bottles,
lubed hands, candles,
mini baseball bats,
flash lights,
someone actually likes this
and someone likes them,
pushing and grinding
against the envelope
sealed with hope,
willing to dare,
forgiving and trustful to a fault,
no fear of apocalyptic
future incriminations,
everyone experiments
getting tied up and beaten,
bruised, near bleeding,
who is that masked man,
too busy flogging
to pay attention
to the soft hits of the 80’s?
This sickens me,
playing with my own crap,
walking in the dead fields
due to lack of nurturing.
White picket castles
were never used
to safeguard me.
TV lost its glow
but I catch myself staring at times;
Western enlightenment,
7 times more burning included.
Watching brother and sister
play Hollywood doctor,
after mommy died and burned to ash
daddy drove to the store
for another six pack,
some more guys to hang with
and swing from trees.
Still stealing cigarettes
from ashtrays.
Playing billiards
with strange commoners,
occasional break down
ending with sobbing and tears.
Sessions play slowly,
others view from out door theater screens.
Poets speak out with rhymes,
best friend strung out DJ’s as backup
nothing else to do but convey
their lost hopes and realizations
about project stereotypes,
race wars and market research.
Dualism’s fallen
and doomed to fail again.
Credit card paid cars
wrecked on the highways.
7 lanes of traffic through Hell,
80 mph in the slow lane.
Mathias Berlin
