Sex Sells (But I Still Have Nothing)

Posted on: Friday, May 25th, 2018

You said
“Sex sells like sea shells on shore,” and whoa, that is just some bad writing!
Then I noticed,
“Oh dearest, you’re horny, and I think I’m gonna be a thousandaire because you’re buying deep into my shit.”

Cigarettes. Cigarettes and nostalgia–
I wonder
if there’s going to be more to this
than shirtless Insta-perfections and thighs sparkling like the Pacific, you want
that Amateur Pornographic
and shut me when I talk, talk, talk humanitar– HUSH!
Talk, talk, talk human– HUSH!
You only listen to your crudest
Tendencies.

Can we really be that low?
Are we anti-Romantics?
Gnaw this, right here, you sophomoric

Pricks-ces.
We’re not gonna be serving ourselves on platters for your hard-ons.

“This brand be like a cry for help!”
So confused in what it should and shouldn’t be.
I’m just interested in making more money.

Maybe I should hit Enter more? Pause
More?
Maybe.
There.
Is that
Better?
More
Relatable? Tenable? Attainable?

You shouldn’t have to take your clothes off every five minutes in front of the flash machine for attention. You can build your followers via depth and irony. Perhaps people are also into the philosophical? Give them a chance. Or should I not pivot from the main selling point? (See? I’m even doing prose now.)

“Who said you couldn’t be woke and pretty at the same time?”
Oh, please… Oh, please!
I laugh with my favorite line:
Must be some good kush ya smokin’.
Burning, burning.
Is it good? Tell me when it’s burning enough.
You’re a little fake-depressed, so I guess we can make this work.
Dismiss it, dear Bored Cicada.
I wink and you’d fall to the ground, gasping for more skin.
Skin, skin, skin.
Leave me out of your two twelves and sixes turn thirteens.

Won’t your hands want to cartograph some hips?
Bet you do, so let me introduce you to ‘nother
world, with much more
peculiar– Arrrr!

I am wax poetic, the union of souls, the tree of life, rooted in void, darkness and the dead.

De hemelvaart van Niquesha.

Crawl back to me, all of you!
All of you who are terribly sorry, terribly happy,
all of you who are inconsistently bested by the world,
and all its works,
and all its voids.

Kneel, daddydoer!
Tell your story slow and abundant,
coursing with detail for the smallest ones are the most important,
the most imported, most repugnant, and the most likely to be refusing to cease.

Babble, babble,
and cut even your own young tongue.
There’s nothing more horrifying
than a mouth without a man.

I say, ‘do you hear the seagulls pecking on the blinds’?
They are seeking a tresspass.
They are swinging with their kind.

Honesty leaks and honesty fuels,
those who are earnest earn the least, earn the most,
cower in syncopation
and sycophancy for the rum.
How are we even functional when raised in fatalism?
Do the blue roan horses knit in malaise?
Harangue, harangue, they have cut even your tongue
with neo-psychedelia and shoegazing for the sum.
Melissima is detrimental. The scamps have arrived.
Pear through their panoply, equivocate their young.
Do you draw in phad thai and carnitas and panchrest proverbial?
Do you exercise with excited excision?
Are you into carcinoma, chemistry, bullock carts and blusters?
The sound of the beach, the call of the Phaon,
the preoccupating marquetry, the interment, the calmed hyena.
Yes, sir! Big sir! Surf in the Big Sur, Herr Plump, Herr Blur.
Quote into your consommé, bloviate the tramp,
the broads of the boardwalks and their broadsider lamps,
sounds without meaning, sounds full of gunk
spout for your peripheral, the Ebisa of the ground
to which we account that to which we abhor
the burners of the land and the tirades of the soul.
Sleep now, sleep now, O’ Connor– sleep ‘n forward all your calls
into the weeping slick enchillada and the building of a lore.

Drop the inelegance incarnate.
What are we if not our values?

Business in nothing is a disease we all partake on.
We are glad to want everything and have nothing, at the same time,
We will burn and salvage and steal and not work for
Everything we could live without four years ago.
Human beings may not be the first animals to become collectors but, gods-frickin’-damn, if we haven’t mastered it already.

Old values die with old people.
I can’t help but be excited to be so wrong about the world when I’m silver-haired, silver-backed,
Breaking, breathing into a casket,
Staring at nothing,
Becoming nothing.
But I will hold what the youth holds dear.
I will not let the new world speaking be silenced, for real.

Sex doesn’t die, tho. Sex is everything.
We wake up– morning jerk off.
We turn to sleep when we’re no longer hard.

Some times I need my life to resemble debris so I can create.
Out of the unloving, I can write the most grounded kind of disaffection,
the most movable of kindness,
the most irrepressible, the most concrete.
I seek for sorrow, stream for hollow
in the ground,
like a lionized busser, shoegazing, shoegazing
into the passagio of discomfort, into the values of our time.

The world is not rich with second chances.
That is a fairy tale we tell our children. It is the lie learned we don’t deserve.

There is nothing more unattractive than people who invest proudly on material things.
Everything in the world learns about rust, about withering.
It is the thing we have no escape from.
It is where the worlds are all headed to:
Entropy, entropy,
Nothing but null and entropy.

We have riled ourselves up with fantasies of youth-giving fountains,
Of elixers, ethers, holy grails and rewards.
We chase ghosts and gold, only for them to leave us.
And so we leave the earth empty-handed,
Remembering us not and losing us into the oceans heavily garbaged with the unimportant
Nonce.

Go under siege. Go underground.
Go where the light shines no longer.
Let the ocean, black and kind, be the calm that you need in 3:30 p.m.
A cloudy day is the most soothing day for most.

I would like to thank dating apps for introducing me to horrible people,
Good-enough people, shitty people, naïve people,
People who are great to make homes with,
People who are toxic, people who are too backwards to intuit, too into their masculinity.
It is because of our common fallibility that I have become
Horribly prolific,
Scared with studying sturdy,
And wise-devoid like a scarred sage of somber,
Learning nothing old, learning nothing new,
But the extent of what we do and how we react to ourselves
When we get a little lonely. But I don’t get lonely. Do you?
You do you.

Put your arms ‘round me, digital, slow, and recite this: you’re a fun vampire and, lately, I’m your anarchist, pacifist, Pacific Roman bliss, ‘lygamist, bound by social contracts but bet barely respecting this.

You wreckless
grave diggers, and bored-mental
sentimentalists.

“Boy, you want me, and I think ya keep making me prose mis’
‘cause you’re buying this shit in shovels”; rhyme wrong like uno, dos, tryst.

I might as well monetize. Because,
I want to make stash out of your love,
you blind
Rats!

I’ve seen people here overvalue fame,
values fame like fame gives their soul value.

Love is always nuanced.
But what if I can only actually show love in degrees of my hatred.
I hope my paranoia was a good price to pay for entertainment.

Thrive in certainty.
I abide by no roll of a dice.
Only fools ask you to take some risks.
In the end, only fools hurt, too.
Only fools get to sink.

Life as a cartoon door.
Life as an assembled wreckage.
Life as the aftermath of your parents’ mistakes,
All their giddy, all their ‘morrows,
All their debts and their pride.

That which you give is that which you create,
Be it seasonal, fleeting, aggressive or void of delight.
There are much children who go through roads, hungry and unloved,
And we have learned entitlement and charisma in our bubbles.
We have learned to make from what we have.

The ability to gain from demise had always been life’s greatest art.
We are reborn, day by day, more deficit in our rooting.

Trim your goddamn soul. Trim ‘til there’s barely anything left.
What is less in you will always be more to the casino.
The dealers hover. They are out for your heart, out for your blood.

They cackle, like mad witches.
They are free in a sort of liberation you are not known for.
You see them gliding in brooms, gliding over shells and roofs, roofs,
Casting spells and making love brews.

They have fun. They have fun more than you’ll do,
More than what you think
About the queerest which are true.

Lay off the meds.
Lay off the booze.
Now we have this introduction out of the
Way.

And remember:
Sex sells. So does sadness. So does intimidation. So does myopia.


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