Sometimes I Remember the Dragon Skin

Sometimes, I remember the dragon skin, 
sullen, sulking, huffing fire to get attention.
Now rusty armor has been shed
and I have closets of surplus cynicism.

 Sometimes, I put on an old suit

to feel the acid pierce my flesh again,
enter my too-good-natured soul.
Bitterness can feel life-giving,
coursing through predictable veins,
pumped afresh through the mundane.

 Resentment, childishness and contempt

embolden church lambs that graze
on the anemic stubble of compliance:

 “Love your neighbor”

sucking marrow from once strong bones
may leave you feeling invisible.
To be tamed is a horrible lot,
to lose the pulse of freedom
for the good of an indifferent herd.

 Sometimes, selfishness is terribly underrated.

The stalking beast uses all means at her disposal
to snap the neck of her prey.
She waits in the sun, panting,
eyes lifted behind hungry incisions,
prowling, bored, restive,
waiting for the weak,
for the advent of adrenaline release.

 Ecstasy is the mother of all tragedy,

swords clenched nobly in the fists of warriors,
the guttural cry of an enemy pierced and gutted.

 The plundering Greeks knew nothing of morality.

Life was struggle.
Conquest was participation.

 The good man was the subjugator.

Sometimes ego must reign or there is no self,
absolutely no personality, no contest, nothing to lose.

 Judges, please bury your sanctimony.

Life is fire, changing shape and hue
with each sputter of orange turning blue
and blue to white, and ash.

 I envy the stallion with his erection

wobbling like the balance-bar of a high-wire walker,
defying gravity, damning convention.
Spectators pay to see death mounted,
pierced, pumped full of new life;
or to see some poor bastard crushed like a Dungbeetle,
or clawed lifeless by the sweet kisses of the huntress.

Sometimes, I am possessed, I admit it.
You may call it demonic, psychotic,
or you may collect your thrill by watching me win or lose.
But I enjoy this rush to power,
and sometimes, so do you.

end/Michael Bogar