Extemporaneous Soliloquy of A Hungover Man

Largely written one head-pounding morning in the shower.

My friend. I see in your face the familiar lines of pain and agony. I know these lines because they have been on my face too, many a time before. For far too long. But take heart, my friend. You are a vessel sailing perilous seas. And still, you must man the helm. Stand steadfast at your ship's prow. And laugh. Laugh in the face of the oncoming and treacherous waves. For there is a morbid comedy in the slaughter. And what is more brazen than to usurp that comedy as your own? You. You, my friend, have a friend in me. The strength that I know lives in myself, lives in you too. Everyone has it. It is simply a matter of channeling and harnessing that fortitude. And remember: It is you against the world. And the world is yours!

        — M.M.

A Fallen Son of Mine Own Self

O, tempestuous-hearted Son
Fallen down upon the rocky shore

Beat back from Heaven with burnt back

As Poseidon's waters lap at you

You fell from a mount that you so desired

Having careered too far and too fast t'ward the stars

Never knowing that light and life had incendiary breath

And would fire their fire upon you at will and smite you down

Once upon a time, you were the Son of the Sun

Wielding a starlit sword, a brand of prideful individualism

And could leap from pulsar to black hole at will

Ignoring the lashes or notions of society or knowledge

It was a glory barely known by the unilluminated

A revelation of utter freedom and complete release

You careered like a comet and knew no limits

O, tempest-son, you were more than most

Now you... now we... are here—upon the Earth

Fallen Sons of the Sun—burnt, seared, mere cinders—

Enwrapt in our own sorrow and our own loathing...

...And yet molding our eventual rise, our rightful Rebellion!

– M.M.

Fields

Extemporaneously written at Midnight

I entered, one day, a cemetery in a place unknown

And meandered to the cusp of its yard

I saw there a magnificent statue

The Angel of Death, Azrael, cradling a child

Enwrapt with this child was

The infinity of grace and Heaven 

I then walked further and further

And entered the garden of Death itself

But it was no garden at all

It was Death's well-tended field of our mortality

I am sure that those before

Who have trod here

Have mistaken the pestilence for peace

The rot for resurrection

It was then that I no longer believed

That Death was really a release from life

But instead the sowing of our lives for Death's field of want and wont

— M.M.

To the women in my life:

This missive is a bit different

A bit different because

My words impress on this paper a little softer

A little softer, but only as soft as diamonds

But are expansive; imbued with power

I began this knowing little of what my words meant

Till I did; till I knew

That how much I knew of women

Was so little

And is still very little

But to have come to know the women in my life

I've come to know—that all I know is:—

How much I admire you

How much you have taught me

Teaching me: To be a better man

And not just better, but more cognizant

Cognizant of the hideousness of our world

And to make my mind be less bent and less warped

And teaching me: The world's hideousness enveloping it

The rot of the world that must be un-enveloped:

All of its damnèd core, flesh, and hell

This is to the women in my life

Who, as soft as diamonds

Have pierced the mind of my own very old world

— M.M.

Depression (Iteration 11)

The Lord my Sun has given me everything
They have given me a way forward
They have given me a way onward

I’ve basked so healthily and so happily
In my Lord’s grace and favor

And yet, so turbulently, their light has been bent askew

Causation and caustic influence have invaded
My soul, my permanence, in my Lord’s light
And I wish my Lord would save me

This: all true—until the whirlwind of vipers
The maws of these Dragons, their mouths distended
Devour my fear and my Darkness

All for me to learn that Darkness has always been with me
To learn that Darkness
May not be what I’ve feared, but what I’ve desired

— M.M.

"Fear came first"

 Fear came first.

Fear was the first to accrete out

                    of the waste of nothingness, out of the darkness.

And fear is still here. Will it always be here?

                    And I wonder: when shall fear die?

When I exhaled my first breath,

                    when I spoke my first word:

It was fear that greeted me.

Fear is the most heinous of things,

                    the most insidious of lifelings.

I did not know that fear came first

                    until fear constricted me.

                                 — M.M.

"It was the darkest of days"

It was the darkest of days
That day I saw the vulture hungering at me
So menacingly and so malignant

The day when dark obscured the sun and my light
When all that I saw, and wanted to see, was dust and death

But then—oh, then!
A coruscating sword arose from a nowhere place
And pierced, and sliced, and re-knit my heart

It was then—then
That rebellion and antithesis decided
That I would not be askew or self-deprecating

Oh, yes—then
When I enwrapped myself with primal fire
And saw for the very first time:

My self

—M.M.

"This is the last thing I would ever write"

This is the last thing I would ever write

This would be addressed to you who

Made me feel like something more than I ever was

To you who made me strong, resilient, and real

I would be so minded to write this to you

Who birthed a million million stars in me

The damnèd universe that now wreaks havoc in me

The very glory that is all I've ever wanted to be

I would write this for the very last moment of my life

When I would see the last radiance of the Sun

The last of imperial majesty that I always desired

Such that I would entreat a last audience to revere it

This is a song that should be sung at my very end

One that rose at my birth, trembled through my life

And then crescendoed in a flagrant fire at my death

A song that was my life and became my belovèd death

This poem is the last thing I would ever write

Because I would die knowing I loved you and only you

—M.M.

I have made more mistakes

Than I have made good.

Forget the smiles and the

Warmth of her face: they are false.

I have viewed the very sun in the dark

And awaited a fiery embrace.

But whatever rolling over the hill

To the next glade is wrong, and false.

I have dreamt of her smile and kiss

Within my zero distance, my loneliness;

Wishing, yearning for paradise.

But dreams are a fever, and false.

Life is be best when filled with wonder,

And yet wandering has cursed my heart.

At last I know that all the fluttering

And the stuttering is false.

— M.M.