Flaming Faerie Faggot

Flaming Faerie Faggot the kids all once called.

I think I told you that one time, but do you recall?

Now I see you all lit up and licked over with fire.

Whose heat sparks an ember in the heart of the middle. 

This little ligth, unsheathed from the bushel.

Shines like a beacon where crashes the ocean.

Calling to the shipless to revel in the light. 

Careening with the momentum of authentic insight. 

Allusion to the Art of War (actually it's a reference)

Allusion to the Art of War

You know you’re probably not the only one who’s heard;

Of the man we know as Sun Tzu. 

And if you’ve never read him,

You give the impression that you do.

So yeah as I was saying.

I just wanted you to know.

That instruction from the Art of War,

Will take you only just so far.

For indeed love is a battlefield,

And by extension emotions all.

Yet if you only take the attack,

Never enacting your own one back.

Well then.

You’ll ever excel at feinting. 

But it’s in the riposte you perfect the craft.

Of managing yourself at risk.

When something’s in line to strike you aft.

I don’t request you bet on me.

So long as someday you try to find a body. 

A person with whom you’ll change your 

Mode. 

And surrender to that which is sublime in mutual growth.

See the process that awakens love,

Is truly something chemical.

And these potions change the brain

As we're all mere;

Neural plastique composed animals. 

Sadly this process interferes, disrupting. 

The staid mode of mundane cognition.

Thereby inducing fears and change,

Igniting worries and indecision.

Caring costs because there’s such a danger,

Of the other going missing. 

So I hope you’ll one day find intimacy.

In someone so singularly.

As the moron sitting loving you who's me.

As you parade your red-flags decrying; 

You are emotionally unavailable, so why then?

And you're just not open to express.

The fearful half-formed wishes, your intents.

Beyond what truth anticipation can authentically profess.

This is just based in observation,

Not meant to criticize; an explanation.

But if you stay all times in isolation,

Beyond the need to compromise, find role and station.

You may slow your soul’s growth stimulation.

Regarding the height of joys you ride in this emulation.

With any bright there’s flip side sad darkness, 

A weight. 

Which carrying all alone, bows the walker. 

But if you relate a ship as a work you craft.

Then experience is as a tool that lightens the heft. 

And it is a fond-lit hope of mine that you’d, 

Find with me a way to start anew. 

As the example of the Fool.

Leaping from the cliff top of the heart's highest stoop.

To plunge securely below to the lapis lazuli blue pool. 

Rippling the prophetic force of soothe.

It’s hard to speak this honestly,

Or tell a truth so true as this one seems

But in life; 1 of my wishes of a hypothetic 3;

Is to secure a lifetime trawling joy,

As a pair of two players, a you and a me.

A Night-In Ideal (warning strong sexual content 🤷‍♂️)

To nurse on your thick cock, while settled to watch Netflix.

Not at it to make you cum, just to languidly edge you.

That thought’s been again the theme, of my today’s thinking.

Sitting awash in recall of scenes, where we are sweating then showering.

Flash to the form of you under my palms.

                                       Flash to your balls in my mouth tightening as you cum.

             Flash to hugging you tightly then watching you go.

All this on a channel, a subdued band of awareness. 

That replays past experience, while co-creating the next new ones.

The hope of the dawn as above it the sun rises.

Seems to be for me; anticipating the next,
Deep pounding you can deal with me riding.

Autonomy Interlude

You know, it’s funny but true 

But since I've known you.

My autonomy has been found

In the time shared by us two. 

Which makes me utterly happy,

Though the fact is a bit sad.

Locked in stagnation and trauma,

Transmuted to experiences grand.

And of course I am versed, 

In approximate monogamy.

I’ve even practiced it in days

Enough to fill cases,

Tho I admit not always perfectly. 

But for the greater percentage,

of most of these ol’ lived-long days.

A decade under the yoke,

Of a situation over-stayed.

I've played mono-el-mono 

Just one significant someone.

But he broke my heart long a ago,

Yet held my feet to the ground.

Not to say it was abusive,

At least not intentionally.

But situational excess emotion,

Is triggering for someone as me. 

But it isn’t a blame game.

It is what it is.

And if it holds me in your orbit

My gratitude for the spin. 

Reflective Recollection on Patterns to Which I Belong...

I can never really seem to let my notions of you go.

I hold close onto the words you’ve said.

The memory of the way you move.

And all the little things you’ve shown. 

Hints of sights you’ve seen, experiences gloamed. 

All presented to my projected senses.

In those few moments that,

The two of us have together known. 

And I wonder and I puzzle, 

Thought an Auryn twisted bauble. 

Labyrinth of loving sorrow, 

Result of an anxious attachment style.

That changes tact and tries relying,

On outpouring and beguiling, with an

Exuberant defiance. 

That turns out affection.

In parade of presentation,

Including poetry and praises. 

Promising physical adulation. 

All alluding to the notion,

That it be by universes’ motion.

We are somehow bound together in, 

A contract as impartial as the stars that set it.

For if all of time is just one instant. 

And this existence such was we get.

Is just one more iteration of a,

Stream of conscious incarnation.

Fleshly clad and demarcated,

Thus the other is created.

From whom we’ll learn who 

we can, for better or worse.

Really be, as in actually, truly.

And not just in the time it takes
For serving tea in accordance to ceremony.

Corded Connections

I’ve been looking up energetic connections.

Soul ties,

Spirit chords,

Or bindings or,

What have you.

The prognosis seems grim

Upon these terms.

Just different ways to spell par-a-sit-ism to host.

 Or so new age wahoo would prescribe it to be.

They recommend severance of all,

Using some sort of soul sword thingy.

Forged in the minds eye.

And hammered by will.

Wielded by arms made

Of astral plane ectoplasm? 

My intuitive sense recoils at this.

As it views bonded attachment

As beyond remiss.

Meanwhile we’re all energetically interwoven.

Indra’s net through the world can be beholded.

Legacy of action through our line. 

This tapestry we can call the matrix.

Weaves through our sensorial spine.

Together we create, set, and define, our real world.

Layers of perception lathed like wood. 

Like many-things, one thing is as bad, 

As how you can use it to be.

Through excess or negative intent, 

We all know well where such dark paths can lead.

But not all fused points must act as bounds.

Tortures holding one to the ground.

Our reaction to others should direct inwards;

To the places where harm’s scars have seared into our profundity.

If our quest in this life is to live as well;

As our own soul’s are bravend to be.

Than I’d rather dispell only those silken ropes,

Dripping with obvious toxicity.

And to do that the best way is to heal my own mend.

The apertural openings that allow the snaking lines of those controllers in.

That turn others into puppets, threaded by passion placed hooks in ones gut-space. 

While we cannot escape entangling quanta.

We can alter our responsive circadian correspondences.

And pitch our vibrations to harmonize.

Drowning out,

Grotesque discordant verse of alibis.

Sometimes loyquascious, 

But other times terse;

And turn the melody back 

from becoming worse.

Clearly, depending the timing's fall. 

A blessing’s a curse, this is well known to all.

Decathlete

And all of my efforts,

Just pearls before swine.

Ten years down the drain,

Such is the passage of time.