Skin-side down

Posted on: Tuesday, February 19th, 2019

Why should I let the shallow people get me down?
Painted people with the painted sceneries of and in faces are cool!
Cool, I guess. I test torrential; a land-dweller who owns no land,
Owns only garbage. But see, but see, I.
Know that I am Ethan Lesley CC, rethreader of lovers,
Poet from the wild, the very embodiment
Of mental anarchy! Of mental anguish
From years of agony. So, then, tell me, tell me,
Do I know you? Do we know you? Just tell me,
Bet, and test me to it. Tell me again
About just who in the seven hells are you?
Become, I promise thee, fellow land-dweller
Who probably owns some land and no garbage,
That. despite all of my testiness, that at least I still truly know me.

“Napansin ko kasi may mga tattoo ka. Alam mo naman, ang sinasabi nila sa mga taong may tattoo…”
“Well, ‘tang-ama… Lumaki ka sigurong repressed,” I assessed. I confess, I never really cared about people with such
Thinking. Do you even think? Do you even blink?

…Lord, have mercy on me. I want to learn mercy, mercy. Have mercy. Merci.

I breathe– my teeth green; my tongue green; my lip, giving in– “Mercy!”

I found that I haven’t missed much since the last resignation I signed– not much– no, not really;
and things were about the same– the pain, the game and gain– all for me and not wanted by me.
but my throat is gasping– had no homefield advantage, but I want’d it– Mercy for the madhouse!
…Merci! I believed if I go back, test the mind unweakened, I could survive and tell another story;

scrapyard junkies drinking Capri Suns arguing in tender and mangy
podunks, pretending to be onerous like sealants and sea lions,
and their mouths, like centrifuges, are laced with some granulated substance
where heaven does not compare and hell does not decline from,
but why would hell do so against the free-form anthologies of their temperaments, the feigned power
of spacefaring in the mind– around Peoria, around the Pacific, in Cache la Poudre–
safe and skating… I say let’s skate and stake with the bees, wholesale and partake
the modest drinks with the drunkard abbesses and their handsome companies;

“Pierogies are welcome this summer.”
“I dream kielbasa and Hasselblad,” said one.
“I want something elusive and intimate.”
“What could be more intimate that the first time you witness your partner’s genuine laugh?” I asked?
“What could be more infinite than that sort of– to the mind– a breakthrough, hammering, deposi?”

I can’t deny it no longer– They, They– the things that to me are primal– the desires
that say I only want one, and only have ever I needed one– Play– I lay
with the other caramel people– in a town where the people only criticize but never create–
but when they do the latter, even all painters and masons, aristocrats and masters of old are envious–

and the arguments will spin about, from Filipino authors and movies and chick flicks
and Pavlovian conversations to Nuyorican daydreams, and the life they had to forgo,
the life forgotten– the lite amazing– as the hands of the clock lie to everybody but me…
Me, I’ve always been aware of the time… how little of it is spent in actual enjoyment,
how much of it wasted on waiting and serving and breathing the opposite of our most valid
social science– and Me says, “And Time will lie to you; and let not your body lie to you;
and learn from the aegists no more than the détentes, or the lie of them; and you
will have a point made but left, not to you, but to somebody unwilling to learn.”

“Some times, the only card left to play is to move and become somebody else.
There’s a nobility in choosing the self and running away, same as in standing one’s ground.
Whichever is more beneficial in the long term, Percival. Whichever is more beneficial…”

(I might runaway soon… I think… Yes. I must be sane if I choose to run away soon… I think… I think…)
but I could never shake of my envy of their bond that even the painters and masons, aristocrats and masters will be envious of–
my envy will topple them all; I watch my mouth give rise again to the green sun


Andrew H.-B. sings like a god to me:
“I’m almost me again. She’s almost you.”

Boo, we’re cool with the sacrificial deity of non-monogamy.
My skies are full of smog, but my eyes are dry– True as the miles can be tired, too.

Apparently, I’m okay now with not winning every conversation.
Now, both the creator and solution to my heartbreak is liquor.

I have to re-strip myself. I have truly graduated from just reading
And sharing quotes. I make them now. All my conversations

Are stripped of the usual
Clamor and tremor.

I am one giddy nobody. So tell me,
Just how much of a nobody, too, are you?

(Mercy, mercy, mercy. Merci…)

    « the abattoir of wolves

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