Allegorica

1.

I think I forgot.

I am a writer weak without a good editor,
But let me tour you through out
My mansion of storms.

Don’t get yourselves lost,
The shelves are pretty much
All sirens here.

They will eat you up here, gnaw you up,
Spit you up, and, here
Never trust what you remember.

‘Member all that are lost are all that are deserving of it.
Child, are there merits to your meritocracy?
Isn’t that the way we dreamt about, fixing the world?

How foolish were the sardines judged by the anglers and angels for their fins?
I have learned to make empty threats from my parents.
They are the pioneers of never following through.

2.

Be oblivious. To them all.

We mosey through the halls where our ex-lovers and blocked friends mope around,
Hoping we’ll mope, too. I wish not.
I can eat all my trigger words and flush them down like needles in the drain and survive
As another painter of light, cruelly unrewarding, mouthy and peckish in my blunt.

Look, I already lost everything I thought made me worthwhile.
If I lose something else, I’m afraid I won’t even feel anything about it.
My memory, my eyesight– they have all been bleached away,
But irrelevant, for who isn’t struggling with their life?

I think I loved a man not only because of how he made me feel,
But because of who he is.
–I want to be loved that way, too, if I may.
Learn to be embraced by my mind, too, come the day.

I don’t want a man who is ordinary– their love is ordinary.
I want to be asphyxiated with kindness, my bones and my jaw shut.
Could you offer me more time than you have, follow around to the blackened open cavern entrance alone?
Or are you more than just a weekly phenom?

Never trust a name-dropper, they want attention they can’t have,
They are minuscule, tactless, ineffective, useless, and prodding.
Play the long game. Everyone else is insane.
For pref’rring gumball machines over aeroplanes.

Love is what love’s always been– making sense ’til it makes sense no more.
My dearest infantile chocolate mousse,
Stop straightwashing my TV.
I have no room in my life for people who offers only tolerance.
It isn’t much the gift they think it is.
I want only utter acceptance, love without divides, dividends, and ends.
Anything lesser is just clutter.
I’m already full of churrascaria and shade.
I have no more space for such passive hate.

The bolts, the hinges I keep in my pockets as an excuse, as a test,
Really do get the best of me, not what I deserve.
If only I knew that. If only I knew what I shouldn’t reserve.
If only I saved the texts and let go the rest.

Everybody kisses the chip on my shoulder. It smells like rosemary.
I decorated it gold and inviting like an angel’s pecs.
I smile, go through my day, try being vulnerable and reasonable,
Try to be more honest about how I live, and I fail, and I fail.

I’ve seen people put on clay in service of godsknowwhats.
Those who could not create love seek love made by others,
And when confronted, will recoil with nonsense ideologies such as fame.
But love seeks not fame, and love wears no armor– it has no need for it.

I’m surprised of how we keep our urges mostly in the shadows.
Who taught us that our truths and our bodies are things to be ashamed about?
But there are reasons known to men which jaundiced the titans of the ocean via siren song,
Or to harbor’s comfort by moon as guide– for we are as much ourselves in the day as we are in the night.

Our current pathos have corrupted my teeth,
My banal analogies and carnal anthologicals,
The surreal-est realest reels,
A canopy of my sins, ambrosia of the tides.

Longevity is the best test,
Brings out the worst, weeds out the worst.
Do we all croak under it?
I leave the pieces gloomy under vassal.
Here lay the molecules our standards have failed.
Here come the rug,
Here come the rug.

3.

Am always busy during the summer,
Working, plotting, killing,
Waking up when the world is on the sheets.

I do not fear the crow-masked, candy-carved men.
(We are faithful contacts, maybe more than friends.)
I only fear dying the predictable deaths.

We are all but wretched power.
We are all but hands to the world.
In our sleep, our bodies stiffen,
Croaking like a cigarette, noisy like incense.
Nothing makes sense anymore but everything.
We have become conspiracists to our own being.
So who sets us up?
Who gave us our appliances?
Who sent these people to fall in love with our tongue?
Are these minds only complimenting what we already think we know?
Are we stereotypes? Are we easy to read?
Are we that predictably to jog into the open road
When every single soul’s already heading for the open road?
What even is the worth of the fork, if I choose to stay there,
As them that wore numbers on their chests choose to mark the fields emptied.
They are no longer empty now
As we are on the insides.

I had this dream
Where I was falling through
The cracks of the sun
And woke up
Lamenting
That my feet are still
On earth.

(On the ground,
Same ground, so ugly.)

4.

Poetry, like all forms of writing, is a reputations game.

For now, I write mostly because I can’t breathe without it.
Isn’t that what all morons, all suckers of the world do?
I really want to breathe, though.
I like the air divine. I like the air all stale.

The boring writing equivalent of a dumb pop song.
Lower the bar! lower the bar!
Giants, their mouths
Are full of sulfur and pesticide, and pestilence, some times.

We know the good titans from the bad ones, we
Know them well.

I’m sorry if I don’t work hard enough hours, make enough money, cause enough pleasure.
I’m sorry I’m not a tower of confidence, not aspiring beyond my lazy borders.
I’m sorry if I have to keep tabs, always, being afraid they’d fade away.
Everybody chooses to go and never had I really nailed the doors shut.

I’m angry at my parents
For not being good enough parents,
And I’m angry at myself
‘Cause I’m never a good enough child.
I want to wake up one day
And not hate myself.
Give me that, sunshine.
Give me that, moon rose.
Let me jump out of bed, excited for the afternoon,
Hyped over evenings to come.
I want to descend into the crescent fortress
And feed the flock scattered in the grass.
Kill all my black aptitudes, and kill me with honey.
I’m over the world failing us, failing me.
I can’t turn for the bottle forever.

I’m married to escapism. Let me be Romantic, let me be
Nailed in front of the white sheets, comfy in
The lazy boy, popcorn and Coke Zero. I am home here.
Don’t tell me home can be better. You don’t know,
You never provided me something better, no alternative.
All voyeurs should be killed.
Is this all better
Than her crawling through vents
Trying to find acceptance.
I’ll remain here, waiting, waiting, waiting,
I’m not going anywhere.
Yeah.
I’m not going
Anywhere.

5.

I kiss kind ’cause I’m all for extremes.
I guess good guys always finish but only somewhere in the middle
Place where I’ve made bets, and aren’t they stunning– the spleen
Made like cushion where we could watch the summer days waste away,
Waste in decay. We’re forever twenty-sixes, forever twenty-eights,
Trying to cement our feet in the middle of the cyan and royal blue-lined roads.

My age is not something I can control.
Here lies the burning of my town, come all ye jollies and all ye mindless, come see,
An exercise into catharsis– the overgrown child bleeding and bleeding.

‘Love you! Stay safe! Have lots of fun! Get wasted! Dance ’til the sunrise swallows you
Whole!’

We do so much for the things we only half-love.
Never bending roads for those we actually want.
I could make a constellation out of these riveresques, I could
Clean the aisles with my tears from the isles– O’, the isles from miles and miles
And miles away. They break so yellow.

Scraplace the pernicious, push the edges red and sorrowful,
And hail our own microcosms under pinkies lying.
Are you buying? Are you looking for it? Does your mind-store bridge you towards
That tunnel evergreen, dark in the morning, flourishing at eight?
I feel like our parents accidentally just brought us to this world to struggle financially.

Six-thirty p.m. TV is such a good reminder of how not good we are to the world.
All of our crusades, all of our tufts, all of the cruel cults telling my never-moving father
To mow our country away with their anti-sex ideologies,
And all the gays hating all the other gays on the Internet,
And all the gays being bullied by the über-masculine shitheads,
And all the gays being deported, pissed on, thrown from higher grounds,
And all the killing, all the robberies gone wrong, all the suicides,
All, all, all in the name of some god probably bored or stunned by our crazies.

I’m petty mad so I’ll send them spiraling, spiraling, spiraling.
Spend them, squander, tumbling, tumble in.
Looking good in that gabardine, uniformed beige ‘gainst
The sand and the flawless waves; cologne commercial commemorate.

I really shouldn’t let my disabilities and restlessness and spite for this void get the best of me,
I really shouldn’t.
But here we are.

6.

everything you do is a fake-out
usher me out, out-stage me, be better than me
i’ve been working on self-betterment lately
i’ve been studying, i’ve been breeding into the boring holes
of society– eek! society!
tell me is there something more promiscuous than your mind?
how many books have you mad e love to this week?
how many did you leave behind?
i check on the lockers where i have left
a billion love letters to never send
and i send them back to my porch, yellow and almost
undone– all the quiet charisma i exhaust making them
severe and hollowed out, like pigeons passing by

hail now, the hell we fed with
all of our platitudes, rise and get conniving
we thrive through and by our insolence, anyway
what more is a day, what more is a day
but another extension of arms t’wards the moons of mars

i always eat alone and i go to the movies alone
i want to cry without distraction
delve into minds, peer into worlds unfiltered and half
petrified

it’s a cruel world and i’m a cruel player
cold and canvassing the canyons, cornucopia, and cataracts for
sight– owning nothing but everything inherited, still
nothing of real value, just pieces of burnt-wood
so we go into burning
i never knew how comforting fire was till i decided to sacrifice all my sorrows to it
and the trash bin, plastic and cheap, melted beside me
i could worship just the black smoke off it, the singing good byes

i really shouldn’t let my insecurities get the best of me
i really shouldn’t
but

i hate the waterlings huddled in groups, making noise and attracting attention
knowing I’ll never be that alive
and

making me wait is like art to you
you make me wait for nothing, make me stay for everything
i’ve never felt more alone, more like luggage
the way i stared at the empty
mail box at night, and it keeps raining
and even my faves couldn’t drum me up
and my legs
just outside
the handsomest coffin i myself prepped
(don’t forget i still have legs, don’t forget i still know how to walk,
i can still walk,
i think)

it’s always just the little things, isn’t it?
it’s always
just.
the goddamn
little
things.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Burgundahlia, poetry
 
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