are a stream
My love is...................... a bubble
sinking,..... but...surfacing...up later
multiplying, when you fell down.
Coffee has become a bedtime drink once more:
soothing my franatic typing into rhythmic writing
,only stopped by the knock at the door.
"What" i scream, shredding my vocal chords,
"Room service, sir" replied the voice from the door.
under my breathe I mumble "give me a sec", then I hide the girl who is inside my bed, undressed, mask the smoke with a vibrant erray of deodorant and pause.
Do I shut the lid on my story?
Did I even order room service?
"Do you need assistance sir?"
No one dare speak.
I slide to the floor, with my head on my knees.
I've never felt so alone, with a girl who lusts over me, & credit card keys.£
How deep is a puddle?
Underneath the sky
Atop the earth
And soaking into the dirt beside the rugged asphalt
Created beside the hand of man
How it reaches in
Just to stir itself into a frenzy
How it seeks to meddle and mend the crooked stream
From its own perspective
When the preference is not to wind but to align
For this I say
Unto the man
Who holds the line
With his elbows locked and intertwined
That a winding way is not a way
Or a challenge from the immortal hand
It's just a steam of the natural
It's just the earth trying to begin again
Pulling the water back to the sea
To grind the eternal rock to sand
Ever so slowly
And this is why
Directly beside your creation
The puddles began
The stream played thick and heavy,
in the red dawn, of the darkest night.
Tree-lines aghast in the kindling,
of the Summer Solstice fires.
Upon the sunrise, on the banks among the foliage,
time tracks into the overgrown trails.
In a deliberate folly, the seasons pass
as the blended wood, welcomes unwavering change.
Lead back, to dusk, the crisp inviting hum
of running water, and only a moment has passed.
today was an alright day.
i just don't really feel like writing about it.
work is fine
but it's only a story you can tell once,
and it's just
i don't even remember any of it.
i go in for my hours and come out
and can't recall a single thing said.
just mumbling and a few faint faces and the next week schedule and other
and the fact the mop
and the dust pan
tilts to the side
and there's never any fresh meat-
but plenty of onion,
and all girls quit in 4 days after they discover that it's indeed dirty and
their acrylic nails aren't suited to scrubbing
tiling and grime.
and my sweat drips
and it still sticks to me.
and i walk home
and flip off fuckers driving too close to me - challenging me for the fact that i even
wake up to this
and go at it
day after day after day
everyone's a sadist --
and everyone is afraid
but i still dream of flowers in the rain
i remember going to sizzler
with my mom and my 2 brothers
and some random guy and lady---
all at the table.
and she'd load up the tray with dinosaur nuggets
and split pea soup
and swirly icecream
of which you could fill a bucket and
only get a light scolding from the waitress with her 4 freckles.
i'd eat that stuff,
and there'd be faint music and clinking
and dishes breaking
and children laughing and crying
and burps from old people
from overzealous husbands
who would proclaim flatulance as being a sign of
gratitude for one's meal in
if you've ever heard.
and the carpet would be drenched in animal piss
and the air
thick will fillaments
and greasy dust--
and my eyes would water,
and the memories
would be a haze,
but it was always rather pleasant.
and the best part was the red ballon with the 'S' logo.
and it'd pop usually upon arriving home after you sit on it or something like that---
Then many years later
i went back with a friend
and his dad who happened to be pretty drunk
and we were listening to Lennon's "Wheels Go By''
and the waiter
was younger and better looking and had less disdain--
and i just got chocolate icecream.
but there were no swirls.
the swirles were long gone.
and then i flicked my ciggarette into an immaculate ashtray
and a few ladies
talked about the lunch specials.
and my stomach gurgled
and we went
to ihop instead.
dancing on the freeway
while flipping off the drivers and pissing into someone's yard
whilst eating a
they swerve around me
and weave in and out of lanes
and throw rotten fruit onto me.
fires erupt in the distance
into thin dust.
ruins are uncovered
showing the slow ascent of man.
discoveries are made,
then the shots are fired
and hit me in the gut
it flings off of my chin
and onto the cement
clicking my toe.
bloods spills out
and i crap myself from the excitement.
the excrement collects into a neat pile.
then the helicopter
fro ma distance shouts at me,
telling me to
''GET ON THE GROUND
TUCK IN YOUR GENITALS''
and the news crew
rolls up and interviews me,
and i spit on the womans face
and she cums
and rrubs her vulva
behind a bush in the distance.
and i'm handcuffed
and throw into
as they throw me into a laggoon
my name wrong
on the urn
and drop me into a boiling vat of lubricant for the elederly.
and then my eyes
is slow release
and none of my relevatives
are sitting at the gate
just a few
that form a beautiful V
in the rising dawn sky
I've been taking hormones for right around three years now, and I know it isn't long in contrast to the length of adventures others have had, but I'd like to describe what it's been like here on this side. I haven't made many other queer friends as I have this fearful feeling of dread that my inclusion into the community depends on the dedication I commit to being a walking means to the end society has deemed fit the only end in store for me. Folk like me, I think -- imagine at least -- get their breadth of emotion choked in the fall between spokes of the wheel. I retain, that within the other is another other, deeper still beneath the tired paradigms, mired lower in pain and shame til the next.