The Thoughts of Some Old Guy Who Has Lost a War

No boring fetish to keep locked away
in a musty closet or
a war-time footlocker that
once kept foolish love letters.

No maid uniforms, leather whips, handcuffs or
hot-waxed nipples to speak of.

My deviance stands at attention before me.
Wine, liquor, and beer bottles keep cheering for the next
word to be colossal in omnipotence.

An unthinkable task.
One that’s harder and harder to achieve in
this recycled life. So

I suffer the merriment of
self-medication, children’s lies,

panoramic bouquets of gore.

Like a drunk lover falling all over the ground
I carry the burden of someone else’s tribulations and
lightweight continuation.