Existence for Granted

Displacement, a vacuum
Heartbreaks yield a smile
Strangers are lovers without
I want so much of nothing at all
Restless
He’s wrecked
More of nothing. Less of now
I don’t like what I want
I pursue the escape
Fall for an exit
Inhale the end
His eyes gaze my soul
Or the lack thereof
Seclusion is pure
Death plays hard to get
Pull me in close
As I shut my eyes
Envision the movement
Stand everything still
It has been a pleasure, of course, missing you
It will be an honor, destroying you.

Emotional Rollerfuck.

The shower runs

Both hands on the tiles

Break everything but character

Break nothing but myself

Light cracks through the door

Render me still

Deflection. The ruse

The red herring was always the muse

Breath held on a word

It’s time to be stifled

A shadow is cast

Hot water drips down

His clothes folded neat‍

Nothing can die

The care is kept deep

But when I stand out

My elbow is held

And so is my throat

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
Not suicide without note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

The Cons of Making It to Thirty

With my knees on the floor.
Elbows to the mattress.
Forsaken lovers dance.
Across the lids of my eyes.

I’m not a sinner.
I just came from confession.
One Act of Contrition.
Three Hail Mary’s.

I’m not a heartbreaker.
I came home alone.
One bold, red tattoo.
Three feet of severed hair.

My eternal penance.
For a broken word.
Is a ball and chain.
With a broken lock.

I paid for individuality.
With a happy home.
And unborn children.
The condemnation of freedom.

Ode to the ISFP

As I sat there on that makeshift bench
Of cinder blocks and a skateboard laid across
I watched him strum the strings like no one had before
He took passion captive setting my cold blood on fire
His emotion and his guitar akin in unison
With his fingers on the strings
He roped me in along with every soul in reach
Rhythm was his nature and silence was from nurture
And as I watched the artist feel, and his creation emerge
I felt a dagger through my heart
I realized that I could never sense true beauty as he did
Or feel pain the way he does
As much as I was captivated and in awe of him on that porch
I would never be capable of ever complementing him
I was nil but an admirer, a dilettante, trying to escape
For my calculating eyes don’t see beauty, my ears don’t hear melody
It cuts through me so deeply, the pang of truth that broke the seal
He deserved far more than anything I’d ever have to offer
105 days of swallowing my differences
I hate myself that I couldn’t any longer
For now I have my logic and my reasons
These empty bottles and this pen
My fading memories of him
And this heart that won’t stop breaking.

Whispers of a Birdy

I examine the catalyst and the factors that led to it
To determine exactly how lucky I am

I enter a cloud of smoke filled with PBR’s and IPA’s
A world of long hair, tattoos, and instrumental rock bands

The bass penetrates my bone and writhes from within
A 27 in one hand, and me in another

A skateboard at his feet, backpack on his shoulders
He spits one-liners from songs I’ve never heard

Beer cans fly over the crowd when the music is good
And bodies do when it’s even better.

The Artist

I explain my story to a visage I’ve never touched.
And has no last name.

Cheap cigarettes in late November.
I’m too old to fall in love.

An old house, transformed garage.
Paintings cover the walls.

Tall and slim, hair longer than mine.
I did not know then that they were his.

He asks me if I want to stay.
But it was the only reason I had come.

I break every taboo I have at once.
But I’m too smart to fall in love.

The tattoos come apparent.
The walls come down.

I find his soft lips through his coarse beard.
Cocaine sex, ash trays in bed.

A nightlong embrace, another taboo.
He shares few words with me.

Flip the vinyl as the sun comes in.
I cannot wait to fall in love.

California Killed the Antihero

I no longer search for the ideal candidate for literary immortalization.
So many beautiful creatures—countless magnificent specimens.
As exquisite as they were, their truths never transcended the mystery.

Perhaps duration casts shadows on us all.
Or maybe I was never realistic in my expectations.
Only in the short run can we disregard all fixed costs.

I dismay my eyes have seen too much.
They’ve been blinded by the incandescent radiance of all these obscure wonders.
The colors have spilled together into a pool of murky indifference.

My gripe with reality’s portrait is its copious shades of grey.
Nothing is absolute. Everything is on the fence.
I break anything but character. These characters will break anything but themselves.

Perfection on a platter but it’s alive and it bites.
Nothing surprises. Nothing impresses. Nothing disappoints.
It is all different and that makes it the same.

Vapid. I cast a dozen ideal capstones into the sea.
Alone I sit on the beach with my bare feet on the cold, sharp rocks.
I will never write of my divine dystopia.

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Kamikaze Romanticism

I look over his poor posture and wily smile.
Such mannerisms lay primitive yet deliberate.
Evermore alluring.
I slide his colorless nature up my floral dress.
To contract the most foul and infectious disease of obsession.
The kind of love found only in that of a dying creature.
Dead ahead I lock onto his clumsy web of deceit.
And engage.
I was never trying to make it out alive.
His cruelty will make a martyr of me, but I’m no saint.
I’d kill curiosity dead just to save a few cats.
A heavy heart, an empty stomach, a death wish.
I whimper into the ear of a stranger.
And down the neck of a twelve dollar handle of Russian spirits.
I ponder the source.
The knowledge that I couldn’t commit.
The prospect that he didn’t want me.
Or the fact that this gallon of vodka isn’t enough.
For tomorrow is still going to come.

26 May 2014

Mantelpiece Material

Give the hourglass a turn.
Three courses left to go.
Bromidic conversation.
I hide behind a smile.
His rudeness to the help.
Cuts me off at every word.
Stares deep into my eyes.
Remarks upon my beauty.
I struggle to look away.
From his receding hairline.
A fancy dress.
An expensive car.
A stroll along the beach.
Window shopping on the boardwalk.
He whispers in my ear.
There is nothing you can’t have.
It is the biggest lie of all.