Sleep deprived
Deranged just a little touch/just a little
Tip
Crack your
Knuckles work your bones
All around this town is shaking
Shiver/moan
All the ways we get horizontal
We get up to
Get down, always a little off
Always a half-second early, drop
Let it all fall off
Devolve your way to the light, little moth
We're so god damned enlightened here
Stagger on my wayward friend
Lots of beds but
None that feel like home
We get weird but
It ain't so strange
Tie your hair up in tangles like you've been had on the ground
Alley dirt on your ass
Dance your way to the front
Alternate between confident and terrified/cigarettes naked fall
Asleep alone
On some weird couch
While your best friend
Fucks your ex in another house
Forgivable, forgivable
Can't be mad at the poet/drunk but it's okay just breathe
Your way to the next day sit and look at pictures be jealous
Of the you you used to be
Shower like you're poison
Fill your car and
Head South Head South Head South
I think the hardest thing to remember is that everything ends.
When times are great and I'm lying in your arms its so easy to remember
That you're going to leave.
I count down the minutes until you'll have to get out of my bed, pull on your shorts, pack up your bag,
And go.
Its easy to look at it in terms of time
And know exactly how many seconds I have
Until you leave.
But when the insides of my stomach are clenching and aching,
When there's nothing in the world that can make this pain stop,
It's hard to remember that this too will end.
This time there aren't a set number of minutes to count down,
But it will pass.
My friends tell me, "He wasn't good enough for you"
My roommate says, "There's only so many times he can make you cry before I write him off."
My mom says "You've been down lately honey. Is everything okay?"
I start to perk up and think, You're right. I'm glad he's leaving.
Only a few more minutes.
I follow up with telling them that my psychic says I haven't met the love of my life yet.
I don't yet know the man I'll marry,
Which makes me feel better.
And then she says, "Have you seen her recently? How do you know?"
And I'm back to tallying the minutes left in my misery.
Its hard to remember that this pain will subside
That it will stop hurting so badly.
That I will stop thinking about you every moment of every day.
But then take me back to the flip side where things were perfect.
When we spent our first night together-
The build up,
The flirting,
The giggling-
To when we were finally in your bed, locked in each others arms
And you said to me, "This isn't going to be a one time thing."
Even then, I knew our time was limited.
I know eventually I will leave your bed permanently in the morning
To go back to my place.
And I know eventually my life will continue on without you in it.
Without our fingertips locked around each others.
But its hard to remember that
Its hard to want that.
And now you're leaving
And I so badly want to say the things
That you're not supposed to say to the guy you're fucking.
Will you ever talk to me again?
Can I still text you 24 hours a day?
Can I have your address?
Can I call you?
Do you want to call me?
Can we talk about doing more?
Can we talk about visiting?
I don't want to get a drink or coffee when I happen to be in town.
I want to visit for you.
But I'm afraid those are going to end things even quicker.
I know its going to end. That's not the question.
I just want to hold out for as long as possible
With my fingers caught in your hair,
With your arm grasping my waist,
With our texts stretching late into the nights when we can't be together.
Maybe someday we'll meet in some city
And get that drink or coffee I want more than
And rekindle this flame (5 years?).
Maybe I'll text you one too many times
And you'll stop responding (6 months?).
Or maybe we'll meet other people
And forget about our short moment of bliss (1 year?).
Until then I will continue to tally how many minutes have passed
And I have left to suffer
Until something, someone, fills this aching hole
Until there is a happier ending.
I need the sun and it's warm arms around me,
I need earth's sweet soil to stain my bare soles,
and soul,
I need the thick air of a humid day,
with the rain clouds hanging over me,
threatening to obstruct my evening plans of star gazing,
I long for the warm, dirty waters of the lakes of my home town,
the gargling bubbles in the back of my throat when I accidentally breathe underwater,
and I long for the pain in my ear canal when water gets trapped,
from pretending to be a mermaid for too long,
I am impatient for the ache on my shoulders and face, from UV exposure,
too much of a good thing does exist,
but it's nothing Aloe Vera can't soothe,
I am anxious for cold beers on the porch with my best friends
in the home we live in together,
and I am anxious for the mornings wasted laying in bed,
with the morning sunshine through my lace curtains as my only alarm clock,
I want the bruised legs, scraped knees, freckles, and dirty hands
that only these short lived summer months can bring to me,
I want the careless, reckless, "it's only 2 am" behaviors that come with a late sunset,
and I want the happiness that comes with the scent of flowers entangled in my hair,
a late sunrise, and warm winds.
i think that everyone's lives are moving on
in flashes of boyfriends and best friends and plans
and my best years are slipping through my fingers
because i hate being lonely but i'm happy alone
i have the small town disadvantage
knowing there's more but being to scared to get it
stuck here by myself watching everyone i know pick a college
and fall in love
while i'm holding on to childhood
and lusting for boys i'll never get
and sometimes everything i've done
or will ever do
feels pointless
like i will never be remembered
so why should i try?
because even if i write a best seller
and get famous
(because that's what i want)
nobody will remember me
because it will all end
because i'll never be pretty
so my face won't end up on magazine covers
maybe in the back
and i won't get picked up by cute boys
maybe in a dark bar
but i'd be too afraid to go in
so i'll sit and watch out the window as my life goes by
and feel nostalgic for something i never had
(mpr)
Surprised. Impressed.
The first person he'd met
that went round museums and art galleries
faster
than him.
But it's simple:
I've never been comfortable
with pretending
to understand
things I don't.
Sometimes art shits me.
And sometimes it hits me:
a photo print and words
laying out bare on the wall
my worst
childhood fear.
Something
in those particular
rural small town
backwaters -
one street
petrol station
empty pub
store selling pies
and perhaps a pet shop.
...trapped...
...forsaken...
...end of the world at the end of the world...
8 year-old-me
tailspinning
into mini-depressions
lasting hours,
occasionally
coloured faintly
by a crumpled
$5 note in my hand
from ten or so
baby white mice
I'd just sold.
And so - someone else
had felt it too
(minus the mice)
and could help me
name it.
It's said
that naming
is rarely easy
but that doing so brings
knowledge
and power
and freedom.
That’s why art.
I forfeit the bet
I tried my best
But your body's still worthless
Watch my ego drown
I've fallen for a clown
I can't find the way outta this town
I smiled once
But no one remembers.
There was a time before this
A time we stood perfectly still
The bear smelling the air
And we prayed to god
To leave like lovers.
so we ran away from this small town
and crashed the car in the ditch
and took off into the corn fields
I remember thinking
"Are we gonna get away with this"
and the farmers didnt mind
haha
wow
and yeah we chilled in the silo and smoked cigs
and just looked at the stars
and wondered if times like these
were maybe ment to be live
and I asked you
for
our
first
kiss
My house- which I will not live in much longer--
My house- which I do not own but treat as such--
My house tilts northwards- which is towards
This town of isolation in Iowa plains--
My house tilts northwards as if davening- which
Is a gesture of faith in Judaism--
My house tilts northwards as if davening towards
The downtown that is not worthy- which
Means too small, archaic, dead, sucking in and
Never giving up, holding forever those that were
Unfortunate enough to never leave--
My house tilts northwards as if davening towards the
Downtown that is not worthy and soon
It will fall- which is fortunate, which is good
Which is end, abrupt and definitive, before
Officially ceasing the slow sad existence--
My house topples northward as if dying at
The downtown that is not worthy of the corpse
It will not acknowledge or allow- which is
Precisely how it should end.
Finality before conclusion.
Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning.
Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips.
Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess.
Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying.
But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts.
But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it.
I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye."
I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces.
I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad...
All in retrospect, friend.
.................................
There is a day worse
Than the worst kind of day.
Oh, I've seen it, I have,
But I'll never say.
I'll keep it and hide it
Away from your sight,
So your day will be
Just as good
As your night.
There is a day worse
Than the worst kind of day.
But you'll never see the thing
Tip toe your way.
I've put up a detour
Just outside of town,
So the worst kind of day
Can't mosey around.
No applesauce mustache
Will butterbean you.
You'll never, not ever,
Have to taste Cat Food Stew.
Your weekends will all be
Just crazy plum fun,
With no storm and no rain
To block out your sun.
There'll be no pineapple-sized pimples
On the tip of your nose.
And you won't have red ants living
Inside your clothes.
You'll be cozy and happy,
And cushy and witty,
Awash in your daydreams
Just like Walter Mitty.
Oh, there is a day worse
Than the worst kind of day.
It's the bearer of terror,
A big nightmare buffet.
It's a crispy crustmudgeon
Than won't go away,
It's the worst kind of
Worst kind of
Worst kind of day.
But you'll be just fine,
You'll be safe in your room.
You'll be so flibberjigg jolly
Your head won't go boom.
You'll be dusting your worries
Away with a new broom,
Free from the scurry and
Worry and gloom.
There is a day worse
Than the worst kind of day,
A grandaddy of days
When things don't go your way.
A day far more fearsome
Than pulling a tooth,
Or realizing how poorly you
Spent all your youth.
There is a day worse
Than the worst kind of day,
A day that is dismal,
Apocalyptic and gray.
A day far too dreary
To ever embrace.
A day that will wipe
That snark grin off your face
Oh, who am I fooling?
You'll be perfectly fine.
You'll be spry as that sprytle
In nature's design.
Just go right on outside
And have fun. Go and play.
And should your head
Slip off your shoulders
And roll-roll away-
Pay no attention to the things
I might say
That even mention the worse kind
Of worst kind of day.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
