Ah masochism, my disheveled broody friend. Muerte amigo grim fandango. Seems like another addiction was in the works. I clamored for the humiliation like cracker jack parrots striding one-eyed king Somali pirates. I repeated the maneuvers and my calling card swaggering ways. I returned more and more to places of degradations, runneth over the cup the drool of a numb, thick skulled, passive prisoner, taking all within himself, saving and scraping lockets of pain and the ever ready finger points and laughing monkeys. I go back again for that hate and shame shower. Little droplets blip out turning to steady streams hissing vitriole o de do in a sullen pathetic tub. Three men here, the masculine, feminine and the lost third creeping out of dark caves with those bug bawly eyes so seeking consolation. Searching searching, nobody holds up to the mirror held up, heads up spot around, saviors little withered trees needing water. Drench them in my shame shower only to exhaust the emotional fortitude. Emotional vampire sucking life out of purloined veins til the stock is dry; they leave, I leave, nothing left.
As I stood there soaking up the vipers’ venom in the glorious sun of a new dawn that dawned on me. I am bit I am shook, shock, talk, glock to the temple, homeboys down for the count. Rise. Facing those mean faces distorted into twisted renditions of barking hell hounds, tearing away with vicious fangs my flimsy Quixote armor that drops heavily to the floor with the comical thud. I am naked, left there holding yellow, blushing as a brown man can. Worse off because I can’t stand to be seen in that light, uncovered for all to see and cannot hide behind the humor, the bending of truth by my black hole sun.
What is my currency? What self-worth dangles off the loose and flappy skin? Corner store register rings the exchange rate. Out of body experience? I want an out of body existence. Emancipate self, destroy ego, bucket list ticks, old man inna young man tired from the kicks. Can’t get the sign off, maybe it’s written on my forehead. Everyone seems to partake in the leers, jeers, condescending peers. I grab that mirror, smash it all, grab the breakfast club and bash brains and crack skulls.
I am the seventh son of an unfortunate one. I am a spic, a nigga, a Shylocke jew you spit on beneath your feet as you sway along the boulevard. You hate me for hating you. You hate hate and breed little contempts that groan and grow into the hell hound baring teeth. Trained and ready you let go of the leash and Danny has his day on my limp carcass. So much bile and venom I seethe with it and collect it. Batter and baste myself in your loathing looks and cursed words barked at me. Gutteral, choking beat downs slipping past horrible throats tense and hard screaming angry words that hang in the air in brilliant neon fashion highlighting my downfall, betrayal of sorts.
Give me fire give me ether, let me burn the village down and bring all to their knees. Demented Prometheus has come to play. You let him in, you twisted and taunted him out of hiding and you must watch him laugh with madness glimmering in his eyes. People like you just fuel my fire; voodoo people, breathe. Stop myself before the evil breaks through, all eyes on me like I’m the hostile, neutralize me Master Chief. This ain’t Columbine, no news story here, just demoralizing and masochism. The devil’s pie in my eating contest. Just desserts.