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