Entropy

February 8, 2014

Certain things happen,
Whether we want them to
Or not, such as the sunrise:
Photons screaming silently
Through our atmosphere,
Breaking between the
Blinds of your room.

The movement of heat,
From one body to another,
Is one of these happenings.
For our hearts and minds
Are not closed systems,
We bleed and we breathe
And when push comes to
Inevitable shove, we are
Simply human beings.

None of the textbooks
Mentioned the perfect
Element of change.

MSBQ

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Dionaea

May 25, 2013

Hiding deep within
The impenetrable
Steam and flora of
The jungle wild is
Nature’s seductress:
The Venus flytrap.

A perfect killer, its
Neon green tendrils
Grasp the wet soil,
Waiting silently for prey.
Swaying leaves waft
An intoxicating aroma;
Tempting, luring,
Bringing the buzz of
Its unwitting prey
Ever closer…
Those patient moments
Must be the hardest
Part of all, until-

Snap!

The buzzing silenced,
She smiles a wicked
Grin, happy to devour
Her latest victim.

MSBQ

Love Potion #9

December 24, 2008

a quick science experiment:
take two bunny rabbits, one male one female
put them in a cage for five minutes and
observe their ancient dance

shouldn’t the same apply to a couple
of human beings? the kind of “chemistry”
that everybody’s talking about, it must
go beyond the impulse to fuck

we are creatures of habit
and also creatures of instinct
what I wonder now is what’s this
thing called love and what’s it taste like?

my mind’s playing catch-up
with Mother Nature and
a scatter plot shows where
my heart has been, postage paid in full
some kind of Jules Verne adventure!
and now, dear reader, is epiphany

a raw, shuddering feeling that
burns through your nervous system
the electricity of human contact
this is what I question

the query rises slowly, like steam
do I know what love is? do you?
wash your face, cleanse the pallet
take a second look into the mirror

what we fight for is nothing
more than the fear of loss
we are afraid of losing the one
thing that has ever given us
what we asked for

biting our nails in the corner
we grasp with white knuckles
to that which we are afraid to lose
we, the children of Cicero

since when does anyone really
ever know what they want?
certainty is lost in translation
and down in the dregs cries
a scared little boy

MSBQ