Naked Idols

Posted on: Thursday, March 26th, 2020

As I’ve aged, I discovered that the most determined way of muddling through time with absent peers is admiring the shared luck and the separate tragedies. In the chaos accounted for in years and letters, this admiration becomes a silent competition– a solicitation of stylish beatings of ideas. Not that reflecting on any of it matters when the sun is high at work. Even the sun can’t burn through the desperation conveyed through the lost thoughts of the one who has gone fully unerect, but I remain at finding courage from the mighty slip of the tongue.

“Come and listen carefully as the thread plops onto water.
Dear, let the self be brave. Beware their slips in acres.”

We’ve entered into a shaggy rush of conspiring, of printers and palak paneers. A time of compersions and prorations. Of stripped and striped sorts of heaviness. Of volumes. Of hunger. Of officiations. Of dying invisible by the furnace. Of frank votivity of sweethearts… I do not even think there is a law where I can abide anymore; well, not at least while having these all these unconvered blisters, and definitely not while we are toying with sustainable injuries.

“Look, I’m here– the wings adopted;
Unreasonably blunt on Trinity Sunday.”
“You will learn, sooner or later, that
Some things which are bound to rule
Are only indiscernibly human.”

I am a man of elite and useless taste. I take a joke then take three pets.
In love, I find both respite and relief, and never will I hold myself indebted to nice things.
Of course, again, that will change upon the nature of which things become available to me
But, as I am and was raised uncomfortable in the thought of ever owing a faceless mob some money,
I may not take upon my body such steps.

A minute is only worth something if you’re earning something, so go mine.
A book is only worth its best quotes, so do quote sublime.

O’, to have known who must have been curious and who must have been crucified!
And O’, to have caused an onslaught that is preferred way before my time!
And because I know, then every body knows. And because I’ve bought, then
Everything else must have been, too, bought!

Through untamable purses and pitchforks and privations and burials–
O’, to have truly been glorious. And, my! To have been equally tongue-tied,
And pretty against assurances slipped and surfacing and cedes anti-optimal.
What does my phone even now do aside from tempt me to commit mistakes?

So no, I do not just about trust a mouth. And no, I do not just trust some visage with half a color.
Maybe I do not trust at all. Except, maybe, I do trust my money because, goddamn, is it elite.

(Are we now taking nosedives to hunky tendernesses of gaskets and bunkers and our personal petitioners’ infuriations with today’s abundance in backwards modernity? I see no reason not to be unequally nice. I see no reason not to be unequally fair.)

When Ozy was younger, his dad would make him sit around with the usual drinking bodies outdoors and make him listen to them talk about thermodynamics, divorce rates, politics, prices of gasoline going up, rice or whatever or stock going down, raiments, or axolotl, or the perfect gefilte fish, or bitches with button noses. And he would learn that the men around him were cynical but smarter, critical but less invested in their own worlds. And he would absorb their hatred towards women but not more than their hatred towards men taking their jobs. Then he weeded it out of him as he grew older, which felt like a chore at first until it became common practice. Then he learned how to communicated, and how to uncommunicate, and how to be there but also distant, and how the LGBTQ+ society isn’t as unsuspecting, and how the fags and the dykes and the bis aren’t very welcoming of each other. and how he’d try to be more inclusive when the people he were in relations were weren’t. Then politics were a mess, so even his home was a mess. Then he got his job which was near the airport, and people came and went. And dirt and virus then came and went. And diseases and politics and drinking and statistics then came and went. And joy and misery and pleasure and heart-break then came and went. And his messages to me then came and went, and we both learned how to communicate while still keeping ourselves distant from each other. I got to know my brother’s soul without knowing his body, which was the nicest form of a relationship I could both ask for and accommodate. And I wrote to him in a forlorn language, which was a language of no pity, of no ridicule, of no betrayal, of asking for nothing. And I turned both our worries and prayers into verses, which was the most content we have become to each other while untied. I wrote him the crowning piece about what I’ve discovered about him and his relations with his mother:

“For I want to see every thing they had forbidden me to see,
And I want to read every line they told me ever not to read.
I want to hear them gasp and scream and sing over me being slightly
Just in front of the spread of society’s most shock-worthy sins. O’, sins!

“Thy arth far from the standard of taste. O’, sinners!
Thee arth far from the flinting, the drizzle! Ave, undead Maria!
Crunch yourself next to the fire place with the splendid variables, and watch
The soot and the ember become algebraic– Numbers and letters tinkering themselves on,

Blue as the breath of the Northern dragon, light as the night filled with a hundred stars!
Shine one! Shine on! Late in the game, the phoenix rises, barring blue talons to the fixating,
Forcing further all non-believers to believe. (How powerful must it be to rise from icicles!)

“No longer do things exist before names.
No longer do time do conquer the all.

           “She’s okay but she’s not exceptional. I could not say she’s one with the water or one with the wolves.
Miss Yoficator with a certain style of kindness, squatting in screeds, and capsizing in crazy,
Fire to the money and memory of money, and mindful with her gumption in the bay window wetsuits displays–
She knows there is no difference to her scurrying and her whittling her power down the hut. The declining power;
The speed of he copiously money-leaker; the happiness rover yonder the dis-entrancing.”

           “…Feels unfair how some times spending on some thing gives us confidence which, in thrifting hours, we could not dream of. She dreams of okay things, but not really exceptional things. She’s happy with everything that is one with the water and one with the wolves. She’s the certain style of kindness that has no difference whether readying on smiling or aching.”

And through this piece, I got to know him more than he knows himself. And through some more lines, I got to know my subconscious more than I know my peace. And then I sang about my successes with love with such deliriousness akin to lines like, “Nothing is more dangerous than a bottom who knows he looks good pleading on his knees.”

And then we talked about country, then avoided talking about country. About how ‘to save the more natural and more olden is as holy as anything that an answerer on the justly-washed could ever come up with.’ And I woke up to this and that, and to precommitments, then into shifts, then into animacies. Then I began to speak as if the Lord was speaking through me– which was fine because I did not really care much about the divine but I still trust the minding people who do. And then I wrote about how the physical manifestation of the soul is more wonderous than the limitless potentials of the soul.

“Pity to us, then, when we meet only the edge of the transformation which is not yet in its whole.
Never underestimate how forgetful people can be. People have been living with forgetfulness, after all.
A toast and a drink and a drill to those who aren’t fond of the translationer’s efforts. The transitive goal…
A toast to the disappointing villains. May I never cross paths with them again.

“Areum, Areum, amaranth-ish Areum the arahant!
Isn’t it frightening when all of your dreams come true?
Tell me again about the Divine Seven. Tell me again, all of their goals.
Tell me again about their follies and foils… Tell me, did their dreams come true?
Tell me, in their countlessness, where they the dreams of the good folk
Or the dreams of a degenerate? (Dreams that I can’t even dream about and of.)”

And then I grew tired, as everything else grew tired. And separation of thought and body
Became the true medium– for us, at least.

I’ve grown tired of men wailing against repercussions as if they had not, for years, been sowing the lot of all distrust.
          Again, all my efforts must pale not against the hero guarantees, nor put in doubt not never
          The efforts of the bald bigwigs! And I have not indulged a secret I cannot keep!
          And I have not met a queer woman or man whose beings be contained–
          For their secrets: all my letters shall further weep and not further weep!

And I have not made love with any one artist
          Whose passions outside the bedchamber
          Did not not annoy nor annoint me, for I have been there
          Blessed truly by the tear of the fountain pen; and made
          Immortal in the brief!

O’, but how lazy is the love that is born from fear and thus returns to fear only!
          That the morning sky must then be faced like the horrid battles of the fear of the Father!
          And attempt, again, at sordid life and death regained then I
          Having known all the things whispered by the greener greater paling
          Against tenure– ennui of my features, my fierce!

I whisper in my head,
          “There is absolutely no relevance in revenge
          But the title of avenger or televangelist.”

I close my mouth. I close my eyes. I clone my ears.
          “It was never all about me. It was never all about me.”

The last I heard about Ozy’s admiration is how he admired
The balance of two of his fingers on the body of the trigger.
…I miss my friend. I miss my friend in a way that is blinding.

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