Features 58 of the first poems Dr. Cyn ever wrote, created between 2005 and 2017, including sonnets, haikus, and free verse about love and politics and this crazy universe we are all living in.

BLACK HOLE LOVE

black hole big bang begs

your head is the universe

while between my legs

ABSOLUTION

the unintended venial sin

you indulged with no confession

lingers sweetly upon my flesh

yet acrid on my breath

as a half sung prayer to a priest

who reconciliation escapes

TOUT SIMPLEMENT

an atypical night i feel your force

faces now found with flesh still left to chance

your bedroom eyes are what’s setting the course

we both look young for not being the band

let’s listen quietly and just hold hands

energy through skin passion emboldens

bodies begging from the very first glance

no need for words leave them all unspoken

you want me to bite your lip i know it

and touch your body just to hear you moan

predicted rules find themselves now broken

because on this night you won’t sleep alone

tout simplement i’ll please your every whim

call me on sunday we’ll go for a swim

THE MYSTERY OF HISTORY

the past is written in stone

on paper and on cellulose or

scarred into meaningless hunks of protoplasm

in the clumsy scrawl of man

to be reproduced as art or theory or religion

written in a fine hand on parchment

translated into 72 languages and bound in leather

and kept in an air tight chamber

defining humanity from unactualized dreams

as described by a glutton in rose colored glasses

shifting reality to a distortion

that simulates logic in lieu of chaotic volition

and this soothes our restless minds

that aren’t brave enough to hear our hearts

this produces retching upon sight or smell

of the untruths and misconceptions

being sold as the present

so much that we reach for anything

to sweeten this consumption of lies

and disguise the smell of vomit on our breath

and we are blinded by the dissonance

our heritage of fear and guilt

this is also written in stone

or on some other fortuitous scrap of matter

hastily scribbled in blood or tears or bile

from the dying gasps of prophets

whose seemingly insane ramblings are hidden

within the gilded volumes of doubt

and we are all blind anyway

so the glutton is satisfied for today

full on the flesh of the lambs we slaughter

whose piled up corpses continue to hide

the deception we can’t quite stomach