Inner Echoes of My Man-ness (Entry Number 1) Written By Scot Eritemu

There are certain days when I'm not myself; I am him in those days, wise and detached, alien to their human and full of a self esteem that is not mine. Those are my best days. As a little boy I had no dreams and no thoughts of tomorrow, just visions of blank white boards, a white piece of chalk and a leaky roof. Those days are gone.

How did I become this man? I often ask; a lover of words and naked flesh, hater of some unknown by most, humility's son too quick to boast. I guess I'll never know. But I do Know that I am not myself, for who I am cannot be this; thoughtful, unassuming and slow to speak. And for this reason only, I make this entry, for lately silence has become my vice. These words are not mine, they are my man's, and I the boy may not decipher.

Do you ever think about what life would look like at the bottom of the lagoon? I do, every time I cross the bridge. I also think about the stars, and what they would look like up-close. But lately my thoughts are filled with women, black naked women with breasts the size of lemons and plum apple bums; soft to squeeze and beautiful to hold.

A few months ago I wrote a poem. A friend of mine thought it a work of cheer brilliance, I think you might too, even though my words were utter foolishness.

NAKED THOUGHTS (A poem by Scot Eritemu)

Go beyond me please if you must And let thy shadow reveal the naked thoughts beneath thy selfish quilt I am human for that I hold no guilt Nor show remorse for all the loss my aching imperfection has wrought continue you must; do not linger in your knowing stare

Absorb the Christ and let his Spirit fill your eyes Embrace your thighs, ignore the feelings though they rise They televise, radiorize and printisize; along the streets, beneath the bridges and eye the skies But I am human and unlike you men, Their holy beats doth seldom move my feet

Nor does Valhalla; that celestial bonk of bloody mirth its crowded stench would make me puke and suffocate A hall of surly armpits and desert breathes A coward I'll be than such fate on glorious death

Say not Nirvana; that quiet bliss in timeless sound A yawn or two, a fart released, a snoring sound For if angels may admire the tender fruits that grace my feet How dare this man refuse a bite for unknown delight?

Hear these words from a common man There is no end, nay only doom Where concrete lies in sandy ruins And a loony Max rebels on desert dunes Against one eyed tyrants of water blocks When gothic rock becomes the blues And limousines forget their use

Dust I become, soon after that breathe My wrongs already paid for in my loss

To grace the earth and gladly pledge my respect I close my eyes and dream of trees A quiet rain, and a grazing sheep

I human, for that I hold no guilt

After I wrote this poem, I smiled. Not because I was impressed by the finished work, but because I was amazed at the beauty of my nonsense, and the subliminal messages that even I did not intend. The power of words over the human mind is stronger than the power of shit over flies.

Entry Closed.

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