Primordial Instincts

by Thomas Fortenberry


Johnny Weismuller threw Jane
across my screen -- or Maureen
O’Sullivan; him, Tarzan, whichever --
and ripped off her dress
as she took the plunge
into the crystal clear waters
of primordial lust.

Some things crystalize in memory
like black and white shards of broken glass
which are all so clear and shining,
but can cut to the bone if you pick them up again.

I’ve been falling out of trees all my life --
no, wait, I’ve got it backwards,
I mean I’ve been climbing trees and falling out
of love, but always searching for the next
thrill, the next height, the next swing
into rapturous adventure.

Is there a noble savage
lurking in every untamed breast?

Doubtful
about everything, I try to live up
to my recycled name
in search of wounds
as some sort of stigmatic proof
of what? Why? Who cares?

Trapped as I was in urban jungles
and suburban wastelands, it is no wonder
my gymnastics died an early death,
so unlike that most famous companion
bouncing, rolling, and rub-a-fur grinning
Cheetah the chimpanzee
who became the oldest living cousin
of man in the history of the world.

Old monkeys never die,
but what about libido?

You only have to watch the old apes
humping each other with abandon
to abandon all hope
of normalcy. Is it wrong
to hate the origin
of things from time to time
since everyone is so intent
on reminding you what the definitions are
for hypocrisy, bigamy, adultery,
and on and on the list ever endless
in its cruel descent through humiliation
until there is nothing left but the monolith
rising above the apes bum-bum-bum-bum?

I can’t do that, Dave.

But 2001 has come and gone and
there was neither Y2K nor Apocalypse.
Not even a return to the moon.
Just more staring at the dirt
and wondering how to wetwipe
a soul burned on the back burner
one procrastination too long.

Nothing ever changes
your mind about things
since things are determined to stay
put in memory, unless of course it fails
a la Alzheimer’s (What a way to go
ruin a good name, right? Sounds like an Elder
God out of Lovecraft returning
to usurp our place in reality.)

Twain had it right: Darwin was wrong.
We’re not witnessing the Ascent
of Man, but rather the Descent
of Man from the Higher Animals.
It didn’t take many letters from Satan
to figure out the damned
human race, but it sure helps
that I have known
many a flesh-clothed demon.

winter frost

by senecablood

my sadness grew too strong
can't control it anymore
feel like i don't belong
another day i'll not endure
this empty life's a waste
shattered dreams all is lost
hold a gun against my face
color red the winter frost

no love to leave behind
depart the world with no goodbye
the only friend i'll find
the earth who eats me when i die
to never smile again
feel the warmth of sun's gold ray
time now to end the pain
the purpose of my final day

tranqulity at last
i greet you death with open arms
when the moment's past
the world can do me no more harm
the life i used to love
an ember that's long since burnt out
i turn my eyes above
start the bullet on its route

too late to turn away
as brains are speckled on the ground
in death now i must stay
the icy darkness i have found
there's no eternal sleep
for my mad immortal soul
emotions i must keep
while i am lowered in the hole

the life i chose to take
i want it back at any cost
down below i am awake
up above the winter frost"