Poeem: Anatomy of a Relationship

What is a relationship,
if not the uniting of two people,
into one?
"Making the beast with two backs,"
it's called.
Unity.
And Love.

Once United thus:
To harm one,
is to harm both.
To steal from one,
is to steal from both.
To make love to one...
Well...
To make love to one,
is to destroy the Union,
which existed beforehand.
To add to the Union,
creating a Trinity.
Or to siphon from the Union,
secretly, poisonously.
Stealing from the Love,
the Union
created.

The spoiled children of today
know little
of Unity.
Selfish;
They care only for Self-Pleasure.
Two people, together, both
"getting their rocks off."
This, they call "love."
"Sick," is what I call it.
Diseased, immature.

True Union
is a blessed thing.
Where the sum
of it's parts
are far greater
than the whole.
A power,
created from the Love,
as if from Nowhere,
which blesses the two Lovers.
Protecting them,
making them to feel
the whole world
is at their command.
Simply there,
for their pleasure.
And it is.

For the Vampires,
there is never enough.
Their sex is not fulfilling.
What they do in private
"should not matter"
to their lover.
Always viewing themselves
as alone, apart.
They need more, more,
more.
More attention,
more people,
more friends,
more affection.
It will never be enough.

Goddess let me be
as a Lover in your Garden.
The snake is always reveled
in it's secretive, selfish, bite.

Poem: Self-Pity Opera

A Master of Heart-Ache;
It's me, that I dub so.
Sadness, depression,
the depths of despair.
These have I known
and invoked
in my years.
The opposite too,
the warmth of sweet Love...
But only too briefly,
compared to above.

The last love I had,
who I'm now in despair for.
Christian,
her name,
in this life.
I loved her so much,
that I offered her marriage.
Not joking,
I offered,
my life.
She thought I was kidding,
(or maybe she wished so)
for she loved her Ex
more than me.
And needing to leave her,
I just couldn't stand it,
her sleeping with him,
not with me.

My current depression,
the heart-ache, the lonely.
I know it
from feelings
before.
Before there was Christian,
was six years of Sadness.
From Ruby,
my lover,
before.

And during that Darkness
were many
fine people.
Who offered
their love
up to me.
But all I could see
was my own dark Depression,
it was,
the one way,
I could be.

Before there was Ruby,
was Natalie,
too,
and the Sadness,
which came,
with her flight.
Drinking
and crying
and writing her letters;
Night after night,
after night.

Yet still before that,
was the loss of my Mother,
my House, my Inheritance,
my All.
She gave up my Future,
to some new Abuser,
who cared about me,
not at all.

Even before that,
I cried from confusion,
from the pain,
that was crippling,
my spine.
Anger supreme
at my filthy rich Father,
who refused
to help
make it fine.

But before my back,
came a series
of Lovers:
Older, and sexy,
refined.
All of those beauties
with one thing
in common;
they used me,
but just,
for one time.

When too young to date,
I suffered in silence,
Abused by my father,
and Ma.
I always imagined,
the day I'd be grown up,
and not have to deal
with it all.

And now that I'm grown up,
those dreams are unrealized;
At thirty
I feel
like a child.
And all of those joys,
that I knew in my life;
Compared to the pain,
are quite mild.

Poem: The Ugly Butterfly

Please vent
somewhere else;
I am your
whipping boy,
no more.

You picked another,
slept in his bed.
Now pick on me,
no more.

You've lashed at me,
injected your poison.
As long
as I can take.

And now there's nothing
left of you;
Just pages
filled
with hate.

I send you love,
you send me shit.
You're just too blind
to see.

The person who has left
is you.
I've always
just been
me.

Poem: My People

A drop in the Ocean.
This poem has been written before.
By me, by others,
in other times, in other languages.
In fact, it's being written right now,
by somebody else,
somewhere,
who feels the same
as me.

The joy of youth has fled.
The purity of ignorance soiled.
Remaining is the dirty toilet
of myself.
Which I keep trying to clean.
But there is no return
to Innocence.

Where are the joyful adults?
Them that live and laugh and love?
I do not see them near.
There are the scared,
the suppressed,
the hiding,
the repressed,
the pretenders,
the defenders,
the parents,
the drunks,
the lairs,
and the rest:
Treading water
and trying to "survive."
Artistic parasites,
living off the ignorance
of the wealthy,
who will never know
the pain of
"not enough."

Where are the Grown-Ups who know?
The Adults who are?
The people that need
nothing more...
than Themselves?

Poem: Mascha

My Russian Princess
who gave
without asking.
The Dream
in my time
of Darkness.

I see you again.

Last night I prayed
to be sent a Lover
like you.
The Angels outdid themselves,
and there you are:
Causing me to shake
and panic,
a flood of memories
washing over me
like the Ocean.

Repeating your name
out loud,
"Mascha."
I don't know why.
Reminded of
Frank Sinatra,
somehow;
Your memory
lovely
and loud.

I was in bad straights
when I last saw you,
though you never
judged me
for it.

In later years
I tried to find you.
Invisible,
it was not time.
"Mascha."
Repeating your name,
"Mascha."
Letting the tide of emotions
flow over me.
You are a powerful Drug,
to this Addict,
My Russian Princess.

I must take this slow...
like a Potter,
I would not like to break it
into shards.

Poem: Nervous Agony

Heart-Beating,
Sweating,
Hyperventilating,
Hate.
"Ignore the one's who bother you.
They will always be there;
We must forgive."
Not running from all
which bothers.

They call it "Panic"
and "Anxiety."
Fear infusing veins.
Running for years
and sitting in tears,
there must be an ending,
some day.

It's taken my youth,
has robbed me of chances,
it gave me excuses,
for ill-thought romances.

I could just go on,
with my running and rhyming,
but perhaps it's time
to learn
how to stay.

Poem: Ungrateful

I like the peace of Berkeley.
The trees, sunset, air, and people.
I hate my room in San Francisco.
Loathe it.
But it's all I have, for now.
I need to start planning,
how the hell to get free...
no way soon...
I don't want to go there!
But that's my home.
My place,
that I pay for
and fought for,
for years.
Trapped.