Friday, March 2, 2012


Shakespeare once wrote,
love is aught but a lust of the blood
and a permission of the will,
the Bard's favorite line of mine,
I often wonder what happens
when lust turns the blood into
a thin soup with bitter vinegar,
desire curdling away like a sickness,
chartreuse germ warfare assails simply,
arrows sharpened by base envy
nick pinpricks that fester into
embarrassing madness
in the limbs,
in the heart,
in the mind floundering
in the dark ichor
of crippled self-esteeem
hissing steadily like an
aggressive gas leak,
before you realize what is wrong
you are weak and then you
are the wanting dead shambling
in search of a fable,
a whimsical idea smoldering
in nervous flesh
whilst fictitious belles watch
uncomfortably from the wings
as you tear yourself apart
like Iago did Othello's life after he
uttered the line about the
lust of the blood,
often a heady drug burying
you deep in a hole you didn't
realize you've so meticulously dug.

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