All We Had Was Smiles
 
We didn't bitch today
For spring had charmed us
Flaked out in the open fields,
Trying to keep the bowl lit,
Laughing and close as we blinked
In the pot brightness, nature suddenly
Putting on a show
As contented animals stretched their limbs,
As twitching noses brought in the smell of mud
And wind put color in cheeks,
No complaints to offer up
(Couldn't possibly take ourselves
That seriously).
Let's get our lazy and giddy asses
Up and dancing down the trail,
Knowing for the next couple hours
At least
We'll have all the answers we need.
 
 
  
All Too Familiar, This War
 
You recognize these mornings, when even nature can't help,
Too deep in your head, your past and the great journey have caught up.
Now no longer an inspiring vision, expanding, deceptively,
The overwhelming realization (the wide awake nightmare),
The feeling of being swallowed by your own horde
Of brutal truths that come, suddenly, as a battalion
Well-armed and ruthlessly indifferent
The cold hard 'facts' of your time here
Welcomed at one time by the young searcher of truth
Yet now turned on the host, and lethal.
 
And it is a private battle with no rescue (too internal
For too many years) and one you can't hope to win,
That effective army eating away at frazzled defenses,
You brandish a bottle now and then and your mind foams,
The 'bold stand' lasting only hours,
Reduced to a sick muttering, the same old sodden rag
Of saddened humanity, the fight out of you.
How much confidence was there to stand on?
 
You've heard those inner noises, the reverberating madness.
You know that army in its assault and clamorous din
Can make a demented music all its own,
Fiendishly capable pieces meant to disturb,
Meant to pierce, scalpel-like, your pathetic armor.
And you stretch your arms, Christ-like, backed into your corner,
Saying: pin me, you fuckers, do it now!     



A Little More?
 
Why don't I get anything out of you
Without it being correctly dressed
Put in the politest of forms
With the blandest assurances
You're being 'on the level'
That you promote nothing but the genuine.
Which may be the case, but only to a point,
Leaving me always with that one last question
Hanging on the tip of my tongue
(Always wanting to get around to that something
That's never said, that card that's never played
The one that matters and would take things deeper).
You never want to plunge without a script,
Without that façade to deflect my attempts
My tired efforts to get beyond the show
To something I can take with me
A piece of you I can savor
(Maybe polish like an apple)
Carry around in my pocket                                                                                                
For dark, weary days like this,
My head swollen with venom
But with something you said come back
To help drain the poison.
 
 
 
After Orgasm
 
A mass of flooded humanity
Puddles in the darkest recesses of morning,
Bones and what was hard
A jelly-like state oozing fluids
In the final, breath-catching reduction.
 
 
 
© M. Blake

M. lives in Rhode Island and is currently working on a novel length project, though he always has time for shorter things. He has writing online at: 3711 Atlantic; Madswirl; Hackwriters; Fiction on the Web; Stick Your Neck Out; Cerebral Catalyst; Zygote In My Coffee; Expose'd.