In Memory of Howl: By Lord
Kristoffer Martin
Silent revelry spilling coldly out
of wandering eyes, beer goggles bobbling the heads and cocks of boys
and men; the arrogance captured rudely, thrusting its self in and out
of our minds, fucking the mental memories of long past lives and long
past hopes. Dreams of evertude, carrying caressing want, hidden
behind shrewish voices politicizing the secret simplicity we so
embrace; ballads of sanctity fading in and out like whores of the
night, crying out for their woeful bosoms. Weeping mothers, angels,
Howls of cold reality fazzed by hazy hallucinations and smoke filed
vials of economic promise.
Veiled virulence vaguely valued
venerated virtuosity virtuoso, singing songs of dreaming heads
dancing bouncing in tune unaware of the darker shades of sex and
sales loosely manipulating the weak and whelmed. Gayly homosexual
selves decloseted, declosed disclosed, coiled by the invisible madmen
we entrust so deeply to head our heads of thought and control.
Virtuoso, singing songs, nightmarish songs fucking the tumultuous
lies of misunderstanding abroad and broached; a laugher, lying
laughter, witless witness mittness. A gaggle of ignorance bared by
dimwitted reprieve black mirrors of soulless rhetoric. Beliefs and
believing bewilderment boldly embolden bastards belching bullied
ballads briefly basking in virtual truth.
A truth held so dear by so many, so
unclear the reality before them the actuality bent to factless faith
and forceful inevitable lays of straight laced girls legs spread
apart in attempts of corrected Bents. Capturing snatches like
butterflies, pinned to boards, valued for their simple release and
nothing else. A war of duality, plurality, liberality, a war of
intoxication, power justification, from assumed pedestal heights of
moral superiority; a judgment, pictured judgment, passed wavingly
along and ignored except for media matters and fact checking orgs,
ogling the landslide sidelines limping between neither-realities.
Crashing into barricades like cars on a Mobius high way leading
sideways and no ways into the same ways of backward forward wording.
Amabagrams twisting and speaking the
same mouthfuls of hate staged on the eyes of millions, blaming
defaming, for power gaming. What stinks on crumbling streets and
cracking buildings, leaking value money Moses fleeting a flea of
mindless people to be free. Black caged fleas sucking the life from
the world around by minds of so few so tall so high unable to see the
colorful array beneath their shadows. Impossible shadows weighing
down the world . Towering eyes watchful of their little minions
working toiling in deathly smogs created by monster fuckers freaking
fowl across seas and expecting rewards for their demonic
achievements; mad houses run by money men madly moaning for more and
more, their green drug pumped in drained from the deep veins of all
those around them. A Matrix of sullied wilds and hoped for raises.
For I feel strange, my shadow
stretching into infinite depths of darkness. I’m with you my
burning man, the fire emerging as a light from your dry charred soul.
I’m with you, raising up above the cold darkness, the fascist
failures held so dear by political populace, stars carry me above the
walls of human stupidity, and for brief moments I see the world as it
could be, below me in a wash of blue and white clouds free. Clouds of
people opinion stored in vast networks of pseudo-reality, a cache of
outward reaching hands sharing lives openly and without remorse.
Seeking their mental meals and loving burning screens. Yet the hand
of god, if such a being exists, seems to reach through the so
anointed ones, the ones who claim to see this being of otherness and
through their hands we are strangled into boundless belief or loss of
all faith. Captured in a dire discourse arguing for freedom of
thought without oppppppppression. What is holy, what is accepted to
be above the secular body. The soul is secular, sex is secular, the
mind, the hand, the foot, the keyboard the computer screen the pot
the buggering boys by twelve are secular, the cocks the vaginas the
tits and tongues the asses and holes are secular. What holiness is
there if we separate ourselves and our oppressors? Is Sanctity a
cowards hope or a cowards demand?
Holy minds holey buckets batman…we
seek a secular sanctity, severed from several sophistry sopping and
saudit, soldiered south in sexual sensationalism. Through ads and
arrowed de-oiling beauty, caked on in white and pink and black and
brown, we seek a solitude or sanctum saturated in soulless
surrealism. Scientific sovereignty and supple sucklers seal our
saviors sins. In reality our saving has no salvation to supply and in
the end we are merely on a road of endless separation and lonely
delapitude. Deserters, baring the camouflage of communal wars, pink
scarfs or scars covering our tears. Glossy or matte, high heels or
flats, patterned or polka dotted doting in our mirrors. A video game
of sim-ulated lusting. Controllers controlling from behind a screen,
both computerized and publicized, cameras capturing cappers and cruel
casualties. Yet we calmly callously cease caring, cautiously
carousing corners careening away.
In the end we all are couch surfers,
potatoes never quite ready to fry, wilting and molding, bruising and
spawning, never thinking of the end results we want to see. Air-con
on, cold blasting away the real heat, outside our little
holes…homes…what a difference an L can make whole societies
filled with whores, fairing failing, it is all the same.
I speak of a man, observing the
hills and dales or doubting bails bound by wire. A man sexless and
sexualized soulless and spirited, Bob or Blob or Rob or Rod we can
never tell, his bountiful manhood bouncing betwixt his boulder like
legs, thrusting forward in and out of anus after anus. Forceful
creeping cum crawls down a leg, dripping towards the earth to seed
the cracks in boards of floors. Our hero, a man of sexual release, an
man of sexless release, can it be this white liquid salivates the
tongues and pussies and asses of so many, lubricating lactations and
eternal emissions. Can this beastial ceremony represent the carnal
love of our lowly selves, the sanctity of marriage barred to so many
and possessed by churchly ramifications. Or are we boldly, no
cowardly, raising our hopeful mentors to higher realms than are truly
reachable. Dividing our wanting innards to a greater high than pot or
heroin or crack can provide. In simple truth this division of
humanities does nothing but break our bonds, the chains that connect
us. This man, blazing a path of cock and nudeness connects more than
the thoughts of taught diction and division of political prowess.
Bipartisan, try sex-artisan, the Midwestern karma sutra, cow tipping
and rear entrances, barn yard trysts, and supposed innocent piss.
Fellatio over chicken coups, and the value of a milker maid in the
wee mornings before the misses arises. What happens in dawn stays in
dawn. Even these simple pleasures are made out to be the undoing of
the world, twisting our minds with radical blinders. Witness to
fights staged and true, arenas of stages, roped rings or ringed by
audience tethers. Springer truths are sprung, Raphael sheds her
tears, and worlds of wrestlers lie in obvious blow by blow prank
falls.
My ass hurts, after a long pounding
of the Midwest karma sutra type, his cum splattered over my ass, mine
on my stomach. What forceful powerful sweat inducing release, my ass
hurts, a good hurt, like the world revolves around each twinge, the
thrum of my heart pounding heavily into the veins of my stretched
sphincter. He doesn't love me, and I know I don’t love him, still
the feeling lingers, that hope lingers, like the linger embers of a
burning effigy in the wilds. What rises up more often than a hard
warm cock, grasped between my fingers, wrapped around by my lips.
Hitting the back of my throat with each thrust, and a promise of
ejaculatory prize, sweet and salty, tangy and tart.
Anticipation,
of the world we want, the world we seek, the world we imagine as our
reality. Maybe we say, maybe we will have it one day, a day that is
so far away and out of reach. We push, we strive, we hate and drive,
embracing tools to net that future day. In the end we waste our lives
for that ideal missing on all the other things that could have been.
