"There's Nothing Can't Be Killed" -- "Modern Romantics Chatting"

"There's Nothing Can't Be Killed"

I must’ve been 23 or four,
Or better yet
As I’ve said before
Old enough to know better
Young enough not to care,
Playing chief setter
Stacking beer bottles
In a bar
Daring table wobbles
To bring down the pyramid
Almost three feet high.
Old drunks cheer the kid,
Toss fresh empties freely,
And buy me rounds
So I can keep on steadily
Building a palace
Any god would come
Raise a chalice
Say, "This’ll be my home
Away from heaven."
Such thinking a prodrome
Joyful fantasies of mythical grandiosity
Practically begging
Like a magnet for the calamity
Of reality to arrive.
The door opened
And in came five foot five
Terrible truth
A slender fellow
The epitome of youth.
His white t-shirt
Silencing all laughter
Like a mouthful of grave dirt
Covered in blood dropping jaws,
And his zombie shuffle;
Whatever the cause
The stain was on him
Not from.
So grim.
He went to the bar.
His eyes locked on somewhere
Never mind near or far
It was nowhere in there.
Starring thru the bartender
He spoke in a voice that couldn’t scare
It was so soft and pleasant.
He politely inquired,
“At present
Would you be so kind
As to get me a beer,
And if you wouldn’t mind
Calling the police?
See I just stabbed my brother
For fucking my niece.”
The bartender obliged the request
Gave the suds on the house,
And called the cops at his behest,
While I dismantled the temple
Learning then
There’s nothing men can’t kill
Brothers, innocence, happiness, and time
Murdered dead
Putrefied into slime...

#

​"Modern Romantics Chatting"

It’s not the first time.
It won’t be the last.
The best is in the future
Not the past.
Though that snaking tongue
Coiling my mast…

Pardon, if a gentleman may ask,
Must it be so crass?
Is the aim to bask
In tales of tits and ass?

Well, the way the rain falls
Inspiring lust
Dripping wet slick
We do what we must
To satisfy the urge
To briefly purge
A need to stuff.
Caressing to explosion
The gradual erosion
Into the buff.
A bit more pawing
The hunger gnawing
Quiets long enough
To welcome in seasons
Defying all reasons
Boiling snow
Still crystalline;
The summer you know
Easily redefine,
A sun baking frost
Across the lost.
And the cause of this
World amiss,
Logic gone topsy-turvy?
A beauty mind melting curvy
Grinding for oil,
And enjoying the toil.

Perhaps it’s easier,
Dare say sleazier,
For self dubbed pimps
To so casually glimpse
Romance in skin,
But I can’t win
Sight of the virtue
You claim is due.

The chat is fucking
Not lucking
Into love
(releases a dove)

Where did that come from… though I suppose
A kind of thorny rose.
None will think a hypocrite
Hid behind a gambit
Disguising the carnal
Mentioning a marvel
Like a hills’ slopes
Blinding such dopes
Who dare to attest
There’s shame in a naked breast;
Treat a prude like a genius
For not mentioning a penis. 
Trade vulgar for plain,
Refusing to feign
Not having a want
Others may taunt
While secretly hungry
For cock and cunny.

Why not revel while loathed
As a scapegoat clothed
So others may disapprove
To prove
Their exalted
Sexless status?
Grin when faulted
For use of the apparatus.

Standing exempt
From any contempt
For as Byron said
The hearts which loath also dread
What the bolder did
Leaving nothing hid.