Gouken

Posted on: Friday, December 7th, 2018

A stray enters the manor. Everything here was architected, down to the very Inch,
Grey but never stingy, flimsy but never had a carrot. The utopia goes underground
By one unwanted fly. (Every Inch has a name. Every fly, flounces and frills.)

Tap, tap, tap! The blast doors come a-banging.
Escalating devotions to the self-kickers and perusal of lumbar sentinels,
Brawling, gabbing like a nerve, a mutton on the relocated pier, skin-piercing seltzer;
Grey utopia’s most humiliating–

You did make me happy but it was all deceit. Longer were the days spent in misery,
Lengthier, the counting of madness I surprised myself I was be capable to dealing with,
The noticing of the gap between the torso and the right arm where my man used to climb himself down to, and share
Tales of his beaming upbringing that now goes on a box unlocked for a fortnight’s visit–
The spacious, abandoned. My personal Thames overflowing yet lifeless.
You darted so far, to the Wadden Sea surrounded, and swimming now with the other fishes.
A kiss. A kiss. And, then, tap, tap, tap!
(Do you enjoy climbing yourself down to them? Do you?
Does your now-thinned body reveal your velveteen?)

I consume the boulders of his beyond at my face’s own,
And his gaze is perfect, like a doll more expensive than my houses. And I posit,
“And I shall always fall prey to your attention to detail.
Some ectomorphish farmhand’s adrenaline– I always come too close to it. Too close to it–
To a fist and a fit. I dissolve my recusancy.”
A kiss. A kiss. And, then, tap, tap, tap!
(Down goes the wall. And down goes my agency.)

The absence of walls in his town kisses me funny,
Faint and tiny to my morose infection.
I go over the many dissections of the self like pain receivers and graph absorbers,
Now, still, could not get him out of my head, of my bed.
It is stubborn, like propaganda; gabs like an establishment seeking scrum.
The fields here give birth to açai. I can eat at a swatch until death,
Until the blood which glides in me comes no longer in bitter, un-brilliant red.
A tap. A tap. The kissing at the door now absent.

I could be a drone taking photographs of our pretenses, and might I put them all on stilted syndication and speak with no heresy,
The four-track of my faults pitiable and pliable– As an Appeaser to the Misconductionist, I slide–

The vibe of the night has never been once green.
Always flickering, in between royal and chili and nasty tangerine.
I am awake, birthing crazy on one screen; and five blue tabs, flat on the other,
Talking in to many things and having taken in too many, and trying not to send
My broken parcels to the dark’ningly laughing notary…
I have never trust’d myself when the number three is on. It opened too many ends already.
You might say this time is the time when I become a hero. I become a villain.
(I become a villain to you.)

I could be spacey. I could break things with my homesickness. Rise
As the Watchful. Rise, I am the me at the three now. I am the killer of many a magi.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || poetry, Ride Or Die, Baby
 
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