SPOTLIGHT: I Grew Tired of Being a Zombie by R.J. Breathnach

Guerrilla Addiction

The memory of fiery lips
on mine, burning like a cigarette
and just as addictive. The rush of
ecstasy racing up and down my
spine and the craving, the lust and the
want for more. I don’t need it but I
want it when I know I shouldn’t. How
wrong is it to think this way? To see
her, divinely cursed reflection of
Narcissus entrancing me, a fool,
a fool. I do not need it but it’s
hidden in my brain, a guerrilla
soldier waiting to strike. I’m not yet
addicted, but I enjoyed it a
bit too much. Those fiery lips will
fill my lungs with smoke and my heart with
longing, and they’ll shatter my life like
youthful dreams. I should resist, I know.
They’ll leave me broken, alone, and dead. 

From Sin to Swans

Sin seems such an
archaic term
to throw about
when the life we
lead comes under

scrutiny. But
I feel it’s apt
for myself, and
will be used when
my name is said

long after I’m
dead. It would be
pathetic to
shunt the blame to
the object of

my devious
Instead, I’ll say
I’m broken. I
must be. That, or

I fixated
too much in my
youth on swans, their
perfect unions,
and their endless

love. Til death do
they part. Humans
were never meant
to emulate
that life, perhaps.

At least in sin,
I can echo
the wisest choice
in the life of
swans. Their silence. 

Sermons of Sin

I gaze into the crystal ball
and see what my life could have been
had I courage to speak my mind
and cast aside sermons of sin.
Throw off the chains, answer the call
that leads us to become entwined.

You never asked what way my heart
was dragging me. Alas, too late
to sing all those unsung love songs
behind the bars of my ribcage
that howl within now we’re apart.
A sentence fitting for my wrongs.

I should be happy, this I know.
And in a way I really am.
Not knowing if you felt the same
however, leaves my life a sham.
I never wanted you to go
and yet you did, it’s such a shame.

Socrates, Bats, and Beautiful Girls

There is an old philosophy
experiment that goes “What is
it like to be a bat?”, I think.
The point is that we’ll never know.
How can we comprehend the mind
of a creature with wings, using
sound to navigate, spending its
days sleeping upside down? We can’t.

It crossed my mind when last I saw
you, the experiment is flawed.
To find a mind we humans can’t
understand, why look to bats when
people will do just as well? I
never had a clue what thoughts were
running through your head, almost like
my fingers through your hair and the

alcohol through my boiling blood-
-stream. I should sit with Socrates
and debate what it must be like
to be a beautiful girl in
my arms. His answer, I have no
doubt, would be “I know that I know
nothing”. Typical, but then my
response would be “Yeah, me too mate”. 

Honeysuckle Blooms

Tasting paradise
in the waterfall
flowing on the tongue.

Deep in the limestone
valley with a view
of snow-crested hills.

Honeysuckle blooms
and hurricanes blow
in the summer heat.

An earthquake, and the
valley closes in.
The waterfall boils.

Wildfires, beyond
the honeysuckle.
Still sweet in the flames.


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