Many Are the Appetites of Man

Collaboration with Aytch Rae:

And many are the myriad appetites of man
each day the only eager steps are towards his own ruin
walking the line and cheating death a fifth at a time
leering and lusting, dumb enough to be trusting women
who whisper and wait. Secretly scenting cunning plans
of upcoming heartburn. And many a man comes running.

Tongue in groove locked in to his own demise, running

headlong at the swell and squall of his unmanning.

Clinging to the cusp of cups, drowning in the fermented rot of plans

left stagnant and swapped for slick stockings. Leaving ruins

rubble and stubble burn in his wake while smoke-ringed women

roll tired eyes counting ceiling cracks to pass the time.

Bloodshot eyes never spared temptation spread out. Now is the time

for us and them not us vs. them. Ghost towned memories running

like scantily clad lesbians through the minds of men and women.

Only some who stand chances with stuck on mustaches. Heart of man

grown colder than icebox enchiladas lay claim to imagined pain and ruin

in crab filled loins and flop house minds reality ruining beer soaked plans .

Four on the floor, gear grinding stall-out despite best lay plans;

clutching at straw mattresses made holey by cigarettes and time.

Watching collar bone hollows between warm beer swallows, ruin

gleaming in every pore, a rusted Tilt-a-Whirl spinning, running

on fumes and screams. Dignity sagging like unclasped garters, man

rolls over, speaks, plays dead, bent to the will of whispering women.

For want of better ways, swearing off not the bottle, but women

penniless from poker and popskull, time for devising new plans

of getting out of town, stripping down finding the essence of Man

Wanderlust overcoming other drives, pressing accelerator to outrace time

rust catching up to us rotting unused parts, still we keep running

rampant and manic, spinning tired wheels raging as we ruin.

Burnt earth scorched underfoot we leave when nothings left to ruin

Paradise smoldering smothered earth lost to writhing men and women

internally we combust and in others we do not trust but keep on running.

Mind seizes on far-flung breezes, escape to shores and sand castle plans

devastated. Undone by relentless tides battering her body time after time

striking through tattoos- lines drawn in the sand and through names of man.

Harmony stands stilettoed, ready to ruin any and all plans

Blindfolded, one of the cunningest women of any time,

still she keeps running through the thoughts of at least one man