Nights were born to commiserate
on things we ignore when the world's perceived,
like why would we draw timelines straight?
They should twist and turn
and wobble and weave
take off towards distant climes
then thrash and thrust thunderously home
the thought that these twisted, trivial times
are man's most crowded chance to be alone.
To fight like a warrior poet
somewhere in that tangled mess of history
became a slur on one's ability
to mix both strength... and poetry?
Pssh! Gay! say they to the haiku way
a samurai combined his forever and a day
and men like I gasp for air
and wonder where
all the angels have gone.
But then, a glimpse, and it makes me
and it makes me wonder what she wears
when she's not working
maybe eveningwear with widdle wabbits
with chocolate stains from rom-com tear soaked habits
as old as ice cream, and the death of chivalry.
Maybe a little red number so fiery
it boils the blood of untested men entirely
And I drown in the sight
and I think that I might just go and try....
No! No I ain't falling in love with no angel
It's not my time, I'm too young to fly
But then, a laugh, and it makes me
and it makes me crave to calm her control
with the unhinged hysteria of helpless happiness;
to send her thoughts to dark damp places
with no sights or sounds or other faces
sensual but not salacious
just sensation seeping from soul to soul
like stainless silk ensnaring tarnished gold
And I gasp for air
and I wonder where
all the romantics have gone
But here I am
in trouble again
and damn I know it
and damn I know it
for in the war of the sexes
I fight
like a warrior poet.
