Who

A lowly scout
scouring the sand,
numbingly following
his footprints
around the beach.

Deceived into believing
he treads new ground
as the wake washes
away his clumsy steps.

From afar a party
of castaways watches,
stopping only at the drop
of a 4/4 to properly gestate,
by design - by deviations.

Long Live Bellicose!
Viva la Static!

I'm one foot in the grave,
clutching at my shovel
as to delay the inevitable.

Martyrdom is tricky -
I've perished long
before my time.

Far too timid to
go ahead of the curve,
stubbornly too recessive
to pass on.

A-ha, an exclamation erupts,
the claims become
bolder still!

The lowly scout took
one step further and
saw his reflection
on the surface of despair.

The sorry sap kept walking,
seeking out the man who
stared back at him, only
to drown in the undertow.

Long Live Despair!

Sweet Nothing

Imagine still-
growth in a
world perceived
parched of value,
to not grace
it with a love
all your own.

You - being of
substance.

I cannot begin
to indulge in
such magnificence.

Libido

Woman: sightly, stern...

An effigy 

eternally burning- 

breasts burnt crisp,

blistered pouting lips

charred remains 

slung over a

bedpost of bronze,

legs pointed upward

in disgraceful prayer:

She cannot tell a lie.

I, simply a son of Eve,

fixate upon a swollen,

pink breast.

My face aglow,

an expression

timeless, ageless,

insatiable. 

If I am to become

a father of Eve,

will my expression change?