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Hideously Divine

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Ah Shame my old friend. Concubine of the pitiful, voice of the parched throat, the delectable souffle at a pervert’s table. Sit down and break bread, rot the thing as is your way. These many little visits become commonplace, tedious in their vulgarity and coarseness. You are not one for subtlety. As I lay, as I breathe, the spiral thoughts and past come upon me as dogs to the bone, pigs to the Hannibal trough. You coquettish court me like jasmine lace enticing arousal; I give in to the leer, go away to some bad place only we know. A touch at first, then showers pour down my spider spout and wash away confidence, layers of hatred coarsing through the veins, pinball banging round chakras for triple points. You have your fun. You enjoy seeing me redfaced and teardrop squinty. I must be the masochist in our little tryst we’ve built for so many many years. I say I’ll leave then I hear your flutter and trounce back in for the abuse.

Do I deserve it? What a question. You know as well as I that my tormented psyche is my calling card and I truly feel the need to embrace you in cringing fashion. You are the blanket that never leaves, never wavers, always dependable in your horrid way. I beckon you for the drama, calling for the comfort of misery, the grey feeling that makes excuses for procrastination and lost potential. With a sweep of the hand you dull my senses and cast me into folly volleys against myself. Forgetting good traits to dwell on the muck beneath my feet. But you’re there, you encompass the whole mini world I’m in and are the alpha and omega, the fraternity I pledged so many years ago. Remember? Sitting in the cold snow wishing death at the tenderest of ages, depression hit us so mightily and left its mark, the human stain. Poor boy hurt by the cruel as children. Tired of fighting endlessly, tired of defending my walls like some clan game. Still tired. But can’t break the habit; a nun to the god of self-abuse. So it goes, I have accepted you. I even write from your influence, a muse of ill sorts, hideously divine. So be with me if you must, I welcome a shoulder on the long road out of hell. May be you are the balancing force in my yin yang cosmos. Give us a kiss.

Hurled insults and sarcasm
Held up like patriot nationalism
Mocking faces stuck out tongues
Rude countenance soak it up like sponge
Weary outsider
Slow on the uptake slow on the beat
Drama commences in acts
Weak knees crumbling identity
Fallen sunken face melting into daymare scare
Droopy leaky eyeballs giving away bruised feels
Sad sack always trapped
Putter pouter head in the sand
Ugly duckling ostrich shame
Weep the burning tears of a blistered son
Hot angry weepinbell stalled in fear gear
Bad memories and mojo cranking up the action
Claw marks on red chest betraying the pressure
Round Robin fly away mockery
Little child feels alone safe at home
Out in the world of monsters
Perfect hellions bashing sensitive light refractions
Mirror mirror awful
Broken shards pokey
Liquid crystal display
Fractal man bursting with geo explosions
Distracting mathematics
Cold shoulder thick skin pragmatic

Numb Kisses Leave Marks

“You don’t feel anything.” She sadly fleshed out in the darkly lit club. Half-naked women prancing around looking for weather men’s arousal buttons, jangly wobbly bits divining the temptation game on both sides of the gender gap. She rests on my shoulder a divided woman, looking for a good man and using him all the same, tricks must be played for the treats of life. And I’m bagless; I’ve given up the struggle and plight to coast on swaying seas awaiting senility and the peace of not remembering. I feel her warmth, the supple skin of a young hopeful always finding disappointment in most men, here she lies with a mild man seeking softness and touch but none of the relations. I am fond of her, she elicits some unremarkable response from tingling skin, sensations still hanging on a droopy Botticelli bodice; gay and maudlin, elated and deflated, every phase of a red red balloon, 99 not 69.

Those pouted lips glide across my memory banks, once girlish, next that of a hurt woman. She holsters anger as she passes me with some unknown man swaggering along the sidewalk, gives that fateful turn with the raw pain and shock of my distance, cold empty face upon the meaningless drapery of our chance meeting. What did anything mean then? I was lilting on a crazy cloud amid the stares. Searching for happiness in wrong places, dumps and dives revisited for the experience, the Socratic knowing of all society, the triumphs and tramps abounding me restlessly. I understand what I cannot want, what has left me as I am, wandering soul content with the lesser love. Numb kisses and empty hugs.

I meet more pretty ones down the line and same feeling nonfeeling stands up and takes rollcall. Acceptance. I tempt some flirtation to bang against the humdrum but I offer them nothing to gird against the future withdrawal, why be a jerk and pretend. But all those lovely ones dance and whisper in my head especially in the late night as I lay naked to the truth, pondering a recall that I expect will lease some wisdom. Become frigid in prime of life only to like the icy self and partake in other ventures of existing. Asexual teddy bear welcoming warmth and affection.

Long Campaign

Get past anger, past hostility? Past the prime of hate-fuelled vitriolic scuttlebuggery. Easier said than done. The tempest of human emotions is very violent and strong is the pull. The dark side I see. Am I supposed to be a Jedi stifling and transgressing pain and the anger that has been fostered? Oh I do indeed try, I may wallow in the mire and entertain the wind in the willows, I chance to ruminate on bad egg on my face but I do try, forcing away evil intentions, bullheaded aspirations. China shop closed. But o would not the revenge be so deliciously sweet? Flinging fists like Popeye roundabout ready heads for the scramble. Shadowboxing past and each swing feels so justified, so sinfully good, and not some stupid yogurt ‘good.’ I picture their faces bruised and bloody aside the clenched fists, my own curling fast into balls of fury at the imagining, madness mists swirling my head till the inevitable crunch of reality; this is unhealthy,¬† absurd childish feelings. I am grown past aggression, past bullies, separate from the shroud of hate patiently waiting to envelop.

And now where to go? Stuck between two worlds amid the endless, possibly fruitful, growing pains thicke with regret and transcendance. I am here and there, grey nowhere, guess I forgot to put the fog lights in. Trekking over vast stretches of maturity in a form battling demons. Sin, addiction, lethargy, emptiness, anger, confusion. I am weak, tired all the same. Stronger on a good day, better without the bottle. My elixirs do me damage as they pick up the spirits. Few solaces, losing vices, losing me maybe. Battles are not wars, battles are the wages of a long campaign. We’ll see.

Headshot

I get this thing in my head of making myself be a better person than I probably am. I think of actions that are altruistic to combat the selfish, lying to myself on what I’d do in situations.  Marc Maron does this too and probably a bunch of other people who feel they need to be better humans. It’s like I’m not happy with reasonable, for myself choices, I must be a hero, a good Samaritan.  I guess idols in my mind are my aspirations,  the lone hero who battles his demons and saves everyone.  But if I have this mental quirk then doesn’t that mean I’m really like that? My push towards moral options is a defining characteristic so why feel bad that I think of myself before strangers? Maybe some of us just look for excuses to deflate ourselves and coast on self-pity.  Maybe goodness is less a trait and more an endeavour. A battle against our darker selves, the selfish gene undergoing therapy.