play catch up
For someone who says he never puts importance to the past,
I sure as hell am spending all my little coins clinging to it.
Rehashes of trauma, merry-go-rounds and go-get-happies, go-get-betters,
And drowning unsuspecting rooms under tub light of my disgraced charm.
That’s because I’m a manic pixie dream gay,
–Y’know, like, in the movies,
Maybe we hit up, and we have
A blast of a time and for the times, and you think
That I perhaps realigned or redefined your insights and in-flights, and inside
The low-ceilinged hipster club you hang at, your friends start talking about me
Really cool things they hear from way out of town,
Really just out of their own, and hopefully hella dope,
And I have quirks, too! Noticeable ones, just the way you like them,
Because I am packaged with my philosophical tinny whining
At the sight of a halved gimlet where I believe that maybe there I’d find another
Of life’s most incestuous secrets by whomever the fuck promised me that one.
But in a narrative sense, I only exist to show another character the way, and maybe
Even their worth, for I have no worth of my own, no, I have no standing, just
Me as a hammer with my bummer analogies and sad backstories and the dirt road, even possibly
A message about the goodness of the world which you deep down know I do not buy in.
(Not completely as life is remote and remorse.)
I loved so intensely off-handed and without a care for charisma,
Made some other feel bigger and, some times, less just to have the assurance.
But his arms were never that good. He never made me go almost late to work.
I take up so much time and act like time was never enough.
Such a queer for preemptive strikes. Such a misfit. Such a hateful dork and dink.
Some boy asked me if I, too, were a mommy’s boy.
“Are you a mommy’s boy? Because you sound so
Full of fondness for her, and you
Respect her, regard her, you like her.”
Yea, sure. But I don’t think I really like my mom because she
Doesn’t like who I am, no, she
Likes somebody I was, somebody said I’m supposed to be,
Even though she never taught us as kids how to dream,
Or fly and save a kite, or how not to live off fastfood.
And she has this practiced look in her eyes, villainous,
A mix of confusion and disgust at the things she decides I do
When I’m all too hammered to talk about
My shamefully unfulfilling extended weekends,
And I tell her that I have found a few new good friends but she says
That no good people would ever want to make friends with me now,
Because maybe I can attract no good people now?
(At least that’s how I think it is.)
I wonder if ma ‘ll read my humorless homework I’ve been keeping under wraps from her
In regarded paperback published posthumous, with maybe some badge or a gold star,
Or, in my dreams, some nominations?
Will that be enough for her or will it break her
Like everything she thinks I godlessly do?
I guess that may have always been one of my goals. I am its patriot.
I’ve hurt people while I’m alive. Will I still do when I’ve joined the dust?
I’ve always had a short life expectancy, anyway. I’ll just walk off slow, smoking a cigarette, anyway,
And come break the tusks of dusk with my missiling of more
Misplaced rage, anyway.
I asked the Nyx for a room immediate and she tried being funny.
Gave me another five years in the lobby with all the flies rising from the mouths of men they inhabit.
They are the simplest evils of the world, the most uninteresting and vulgar, confused by their existence.
Beware those who shame people for their bodies and the wonderful things they try to do with them.
Beware those who try take over when they are not wanted– they are as needy fools as we are needy fools
Who wouldn’t take your I-don’t-want-tos for an answer because they are so entitled,
As if we would ever inherit this earth when even hell below finds us tepid.
Cut the crap, Miss pa-Perfect,
Show me something true, your unsynthesizeds and your unhesitatings.
Show me how you spend your hours stalking lovers into suicide by your ears musty with greed
And your inability to make love so you touch almost the love that comes across earnest.
You wear the devil’s face so well, you wear it so proudly,
You wear it over your thin skin damaged by your own good-doing.
For a collective so proud of being muted, we sure have a concerning case
Of some being evenly repressed, symptomized by resolve into voyeurism.
During my most profitable hours, I cling to the sanity overhyped.
Love me till it pains you and we regard the world without no longer, dear.
Love me till the creaks burst open and roaring.
Some people spend the better parts of their days trying
To be unassailable, skipping over moments of steely reflection.
They came in landslides, one by one, uglying the city.
But heck, I am sitting sick of the desperation.
Desperate for belonging, desperate for freedom,
Desperate for making it and being it worthwhile.
But I live in with the desperation.
It is but the attic, the friend, the counsel, the burglar.
Maybe I should go
To a ranch, to a countryside, or something
Live without the scent of people,
Suspend all debts and
Drink till I forget who I’m supposed to be.
There are things for me here– little things,
And they all sound lost as the recently rooted high rise screaming, screaming at me,
‘There is no room for your non-high rise dreaming here!’
‘There is no space for those who cannot afford nor pay by being themselves!’
Being myself has been my worst enemy, and I depend on it for company.
But I have been here long before the automatons,
I have been here years before your first digital phone,
Way before you learned how to spell the name of my city.
I cut her veins first.
Me and her, we have a sparring, pointless romance together,
And it breeds no children but despair and halfway smiling,
And I will have to be goddamn put down first ‘fore I let anyone daring
Take that award-insensitive nightmare I embraced in full away from me.