By: Leigh B. evans
My fingers fumble ‘neath writhing protoplasm, seeking sanity I strain to retain.
Toadstools gleam with verdant hue, a radiant bouquet of virile yearning,
Yearning for release, yet finding no solace amidst stones and sinuous intestines,
Coiled ’round their shafts, corpulent and undulating.
Have I tread this path before, or is chaos and hate my unexplored domain?
Are these visions of impending oblivion, conjured by past traumas?
Traumas born from denying desires to be dominated, longing for friendships?
Yet still continually perceiving others as mere flesh, vessels of pulsing vitality,
Possessing but one thing—a living, throbbing conduit,
That which the pious deem God’s sacred fluid?
I conceal those urges like a deranged deity hides decaying bodies ‘midst roses,
A veneer of masculine purity, illogical and nonsensical in its embrace.
This trauma, this curse, both exhilarating and terrifying,
I purge and self-gratify, yet it lingers, unyielding,
Until one day, like a crumbling dam, my walls erode,
Trumpeting a rebirth, a new iteration of myself, a moth emerging from its cocoon.
Madness arises not solely from an imbalance of the mind,
But from a repugnant lie, crafted to obscure our true essence.
The lie of masculinity, wielded as if divinely ordained,
Emerging from nature’s viscous, glutinous walls,
Blended with urine and saccharine ectoplasm.
This word, masculinity, a fabrication,
Just as these words on this page, a vomitous heap,
Distorted, contorted, molding into any desired reality,
A phallic protrusion or a welcoming vulvaic opening can
both embody masculinity or transcend its confines, in flux and undefined.
Truth, the sole compass in categorizing your place in the vast tapestry of gender and sex,
Truth applied to oneself, truth in navigating the fabric of existence.
Words, truly hollow vessels, crafted and counterfeit,
Reality itself, an illusion, no self, no origin, no linear odyssey,
Only existence, fleeting and finite, slipping through our grasp.
Thus, expending a solitary breath on sexual preferences,
Is a feeble, futile endeavor, reserved for the joyless souls,
Who find no solace amidst the beings we’ve labeled “human.”
No, embrace whom you desire, entwine and connect,
With consenting partners who ignite your passions.
Surrender to life’s abundant pleasures before you,
And the rest shall inevitably unfold.
Leigh’s Chaos 