Nothing lasts, all things fade.
Gods rise and fall with the tides of belief.
What is science now is next year's superstition,
today's scandal is tomorrow's old news.
Even stains fade,
bright red blood on a gashed knee clotting and drying to dull rust,
to be washed away with the next rain.
This moment's scars are the next's ornaments,
and "life" is a metamorphosing beast.
I long often now for the days of innocence
it stung the eyes of lies and tingled on bare skin
like new snow,
like aloe on a sunburn.
These new pleasures cannot always compete
with jump-roping alone on
I didn't like it then,
but I do now.
I am young when flying down the hill with faun feet,
but there always comes the moment at the foot of the hill
where the wing-ankled walkway wannabe warrior
turns back into the sly-eyed viole(n)t butterfly'd stormy-skied brigid-cried wild-ride never-died poetess who never tried to find out if the anger lied, because she trusts the feral inside.
Faun gives way to Fury, and sane gives way to sibyl.
Androgynia gives way to nymphomania.
Fights over tinker-toys succumb to wars over whores,
and I'm tired of the battles with monsters outside my head.
they would've kept us young.
I wish they wrapped us in cotton,
or spiked our food with some font of eternal childhood. "Youth"
seems like the golden age in 20 years,
but now it's the iron age,
the machine rattling its gears of deceit and malice wearing a mild mask,
sugar-mouthed children using other children,
drugs named after angels,
and simple dishonesty,
discongruence with the world outside you
This bittersweet concoction of nostalgia and razorbladed regret,
the realization that the world's spinning too fast around us all,
and that things we swore we'd never do
are becoming sacred, holy, habit:
erotica for her,
necrotica for them,
occultis for me,
and cannabis for you.
The four cardinal sins of the years beyond six-
(not including neurotica, which, I believe, begins at birth:)
-Damned if I do it,
damned if I don't.-
[Damned if I try this,
but I'm damned if I won't.]
/Damned? If I'm right... but
damned if I'm wrong./
<Damned if I do this,
but give me the bong.>
So this is what it's like
to feel the past crumble in your hands.
So this is what Atlantis felt like
when it crashed upon the sands.