This book of words is falling apart while makeup mistress weaves together a patchwork creation meant to imitate perfection – free from the rhyming couplets that have held us all prisoner and made a fairytale of our dungeon.
The underground roars through hollow hills beneath beautiful graveyard labyrinths – a necropolis that invites the living to congregate with the dead: the mouldering corpses of past aspirations, childhood dreamscapes and unfinished poetry.
In an autumnal sunset over a long Decembered spring awakening lies a barely remembered ginger haired mutant of a carcass.
Seventeen summers have taken that once orgasmic beauty and flayed him into living dead road kill swollen skull dried up brains in that monstrous Mount Rushmore sized flesh blossom.
Lucky to have had him before he was this completely ugly unfortunate thing.
Long before his wickedness was so outwardly apparent for all the world to see.
There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon where I thought my life would change… where my wandering had finally altered my direction… but it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps every day is like this for others… but the day I am thinking of, the day of sex before the sermon, I believed that I’d finally arrived somewhere I was meant to be, only to learn across the years that I would seldom ever return, and I wish I would have known how special that time was, how precious those moments.
It’s altogether different yet somehow the same when watching you watching whales… when the music you share nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty – giving me fever chills and death spasms before my fever breaks and I’m allowed to dance in the trance of our shoegazing dream pop.
In the fever all that could comfort me was the seemingly old but younger woman with the ghost on the porch… An echo of that first reading joining my pain across two different eras.
3
The first would have been discovery, and on the very brink of puberty as I stumbled through that sea of trees to find a validating fiction.
And now the feeling: brotherly, yet still cherry stink of nudity as I’m humbled by our deities to bind an animated friction.
And the proof it is not fair but the truth is he’s out there begging for money, trading sex for drugs hungry while the whales circle round us tasting sweetly table scraps.
And the lie if there is one is that life is a shotgun because life hasn’t drowned us baby please don’t go like that.
Our shared experiences in the past seem to mean nothing to those reflected in the world’s window screen.
I watch them all hoping for recognition / reconnection while sister hurts and Sean struggles.
Steve is happy listening to sad songs which make me weep.
I want to tag myself in a million posts in every place I’ve ever gone.
Fuck this song. Fuck this.
Life changes us and you’re a stranger that I once knew or at least I thought I did.
I have pictures but they don’t seem to matter; they don’t seem nearly as real as yours.
I tell you the secret in the past but you are blind.
I dive for real love at the beach house with men that I trust while Lauren Moloko Hatchie St Vincent (actor out of work in the radio Dept.) decides the time is now to try to speak your true name amidst disarray antidotes, preoccupations with daysleepers and their creation… and now the meaningful nonsensical rhyming must begin as we fade away to nothing important:
I get a little blue as I listen to your tunes as I Facebook stalk your trek across the place I never knew…
And Sean is turning tricks paying rent by sucking dicks, and nothing really matters if our lives are candle wicks.
But I want to visit woman with the ghost out on the porch… want to live my life again when I am out of sorts…. want to read of witches as my fever threatens soul…
Your aura ghost echo (lost orca in ghetto) and only espresso can make us both whole.
The gentleman next to me is charming in his quietude… when he speaks he is kind with some type of speech trouble – says he’s headed down to lower level of Hell, Beaver, near Wall Street.
He wears a wedding band made of gold on his left hand – his right hand looks broken while the left hand holds a dusty old flip phone…
Aaron hands me his fancy bells & whistles and I smile as I read about the war Sue is waging on my behalf: Aaron loves me.
The boy across the field behind my house had more in common with me than ancestors; most other kids I played with were related to me but he was always my favorite
because of the way he looked at me… Later in life he was damaged in a tragic accident and our future conversations ceased to be.
In an unseen instant he was ripped away although he was still alive, and that’s more than can be said for others lost in that era of AIDS and ignorance.
I shake the love letter postcards out of my skull and pick one at random:
I remember his breath on my neck; the feel of our young bodies pressed together like the pages of a trashy tattered copy of a seldom read incest fantasy, which I will forever remember as the first time that I made love; the first time that someone I loved made love to me.
His reaching, reciprocated touch was tender, terrified and then joyous.
His movement: considerate, then brutal within the landscape of a language that we both finally understood.
In our joining, our words from a hundred lying conversations gained new meaning and were finally made honest.
His kiss informed me that I was never truly alone.
His cock translated every secret code I had ever witnessed in the eyes of countless lonely strangers.
His thrusting within me within the home of his grandparents… that place between sheets and layers of blood magic was always and will forever be sacred.
My love letter postcard memories are holy relics now tumbling out of my decades old skull.
Rectangular snapshots of a time before we were allowed to be who we truly were…
In a time before he lost who he truly, secretly had been…
A time when we had dreamed of a very different future that had been reflected in our tangle of shared flesh and blood.
everyone looks like everyone else, or at least everyone I meet of late reminds me of others I’ve known
like my life is a friendly little shop filled to the brim with charming knick-knacks, inspirational quotations and echos of a hundred baristas filling thousands of coffee cups… where lilting Donnie Darko music plays as Mobley Mouse’s older younger brother sits like a ghost in the corner of my clearly obsessed brain.
FireLion smiles as my other sibling selves recite poetry with all the power that we can muster.
This night is as queer as the gay mohawked punk who complimented my jacket on my way to the A train in the village, only the night isn’t actually half as interesting.
The asshole sitting next to me has boundary issues and a fur lined hat that only Putin could love – he also talks loudly in Russian to his imaginary friends.
How have I lived this long without JeffisHe?
This express train is running far too locally.
Russian weirdo rips his top and snaps his fingers on nipples as orange as Trump’s face.
“Smile Bitch”
His sick room gas mask is the perfect touch and brings everything together in apocalyptic chic.
“Now runaway.”
His stripey pants replacement smells better but transmits plague as if it’s a rebel yell reaching across the air waves to stifle, strangle, promise and repeat.
My reviews are honest but petty… street queer deserved better.
