Saturday 6/07/2008 12:06:00 AM

Not a thing. Knots in things. Crusty bandanges of skin. Flaking off. The butterfly in his fingers finding the wings this worm never did. Not in side. Knotted insides. The obvious hangmen.

I was silly to think of you. Or of anyone in that way. I lose sometimes to the child in me. I lose myself sometimes in the illusion of flight. Or rather that a pair of wings would be sufficient to grant me dominion over gravity. I was young. Am still sometimes. When I drink too much and listen to little.

Sex some would say is just a hole. And its plug. I guess it is. For most of us. Just pretending to love what doesn't love us. The treason of flesh pervasive. As I indulge the concept of men. Dicks too obvious. How could I ever had been tricked into thinkiing that I was close enough.

Building snowmen out of what's left of the frost. They make me warm and everything is gone. Every thing is. Stalled gods on their flimsy heavens. Waiting for constipated lions to fart.

I open my eyes again and there's nothing I haven't seen.

Nothing I have.

Nothing at all. Except the the way I remember being loved. Or at least the moments I wasted thinking that I was.

Someone else.

I throw my pebbles at the icicles. They remain. As sharp as ever. I guard the king a little too much.

And lose again.

3 comments:
orgasmik said...

Unhardern, inspite of harden'd realities...your touches so fulfilling, guides me where the stairways of your words awaits to show what no heaven could.

You face has more light to it than what your eyes deny.
Could hold you in a hug, even if it would only be an illusion...that would make the dying look easy.
j
nb : liked very much what you've written.

flysamutha said...

The beginning of this is so fine! FOX IN SOCKS for big people.

The swappy homophones in their tinkertoy sentences setting up a sticky ambiguity, like the smile that comes and goes on the face of a child engaged in an effort he’s unsure of.

Carrying like a tune the difficulty of change and rebirth.

That bit of flow in the longer middle sentence, with the rhymoid (finger/wing) a sort of banana-peel lurch from the alliterated f's to the w's...

Like a moment on a unicycle.

Alcoholic, yer call; poet, no bout a doubt it.

ap said...

it's always hard to respond to your comments, orgasmik. i feel you're too easy on me. that is evokes so much emotion in you is quite the flattery. i want to reciprocate, but don't know how.

fly: far and away the most detailed and unique comment i've received so far. quite the interesting analysis. fox in socks was one of my favorites as a child.

i think you've captured my love of song and my lack of ability in it. my malformation of sound and word that results in this chaos.



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