He was a monster in our time

"There he goes, one of god's own prototypes..." - Hunter S. Thompson

He was monster in our eyes.
Such a heaving Leviathan we did
not want to see because
those slick black scales
we touched wouldn't shine
like they did at night, when only
form and silhouette calls memory
from inside the cave of my head.

And my eyes blink trying
to recall who I was, fluttering like window
shades. Who we were back when we
dance wildly,
limbs akimbo to the fire
and air around us. What were we?

Those asymmetric gyrations at
2 in the morning. We didn’t fit
in with the gravity of the situation that humans
around us have to work
or go to school or just like
getting up at a reasonable hour
in the morning.

The situation being the world.
The world being society.
And morning being anywhere from 7:00 through 11:30 AM.
To most, I suppose we weren’t much
more than glorified hedonists. Lustful ghosts
slowly replacing their vital
organs with ash and small cynical thoughts
of the world. Our wrinkled black hearts belonged
more on the forearms of WW2
veterans than tattooed inside our ribcages.
Our lungs were full of angry song and disbelief,
our bellies full of sex and bourbon,
our heads full of a fearful desire to wander
into the dark.

Maybe we still aren't much more than that. Glorified
Ghosts. Heaving breaths of want in the cold of morning.
Maybe we deserve what we've got coming. Maybe
we are monsters
trying to flee the shining scales of night,
running  toward the torch fire.