Tag: relationships

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans. Snug, familiar,
warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays. 
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.  I am undone again.

Hey Baby Are Your Parents Pilgrims? (Because It Looks Like You’re Settling)

Sandy asks me why I’m so quiet, and I don’t know what to tell her. Lately I’ve felt a lack for words and feelings although I’m pretty overstocked on both. I suppose I could be hoarding sentiments, saving them for a rainy day or bright eyed Jane on the subway. And I hear the tip-tip-tip-tap-tap-tip drizzle against my window sill but when I stare at the shelves then back at Sandy I just can’t bare to part with a single phrase or hug or Good Morning Beautiful. I’m overflowing again with so many thoughts in my head, but they don’t race any more. Instead they’re sluggish and relentless – dragging their feet through the recesses of my day while I’m in the shower or silently consoling strangers on the train. This afternoon I made a best friend and we carved our names on a tree trunk just outside of town although he doesn’t know it yet.

Sandy knows it though, I think. She knows too much sometimes.

And normally stuff like this is fine because I’ve always kind of lived my life with head in the clouds (and between warm legs,) just musing for amusement and just going through the motions with my body on autopilot. I’ve forgotten what the sun feels like so now I’m restless and sticky and asking what this thing dripping down my brow and heart is. Sandy says its pulp, and then I wonder if she’s calling me a fruit or something she can squeeze dry. I guess human adaptability can also be a pretty terrible thing when you think about it – becoming so used to something that the opposite feels like a threat. What a strange notion, to consider that I’m not used to happiness. It’s such an off term also if you read too deep into it like I always do: used to happiness. Used to it.

Happiness is using me, so happiness must be conniving.

So I’m far from melancholic, far from lonely, far from Moloch, far from observations of human desolation, but I’m never far from Sandy. And I’d rather not write about love if it ends well, to be honest, although that’s exactly what this disease is. I know it, but I won’t ever say it. Not ever. There’s a certain level of defeat that goes with that statement, and I don’t really mean in a sense of being ‘vulnerable’. It’s defeat because I feel I can still do better. My hormones remind me often – super models, and that girl who turned me down in secondary school, and that cutie on the third floor with the red hair and bitter eyes: they’re all as appetizing, have infinite possibilities and maybe friends that are probably even more attractive and more quirky and have even more strange and fascinating habits I can poke fun at over lattes and orgasms.

But they aren’t Sandy. They’ll never be Sandy.

Sex and Love Addicts Annonymous – Adriana (Patchanka 03.23.18)

We drink and kiss and
cuss and smoke. Talk about
our problems like
distant cousins we haven’t seen
in a while. Then we fuck, but
not like its a big deal.

Casually, after a really good song
or way the sunlight makes
our skin sing after a beer.
Over covers and offhand,
broad daylight against our
sweaty backs.

We inhabit each other like
its something we’ve always done,
a quiet that is too comfortable
to have only happened once
a lifetime. Bandits hiding
in a safehouse with the score
we’ve stolen – laughing, spending
all that happiness.

Omaha Hold ’em (While You Still Can) aka V-Day Reveries

Bed covers don’t cover much besides
cold feet and the secrets two lover share,
immaterial particulars wondered out of window sills,
hiding in plain sight from a stranger or husbands eye.
No heat or warmth in this dire night,
only bodies and bed pillows tainted in the thin
perspiring evidence of gentle sin. Wrinkled
like my grandmother’s hands
before she died and used to show me
how to play Casino and read a tarot.

On the nightstand by the record player
are a deck of cards, red, already shuffled,
predestined. The queen of diamonds lays across
the jack of spades while the king rest against
his back and heart. Two fools frolic in his castle,
but for how long? Soon another hand must come
to be claimed a victor, another game will be played,
and all the characters take on another role.

Jacks low, deuces wild,
aces high, aces high.

Tonight might be anything short
of a gambling addiction, only,
it’s not the high or numbers I’m chasing, but
a feeling. The egg timer clicking, a timer,
a wet shade of grey inching across our shared living.
Room quiet like a gasp, and the alarm clocks ring
will be the sigh. Sunrise. Yawns. Brushed teeth
and breakfast as the roulette wheel of responsibility
begins to spin again. My heart winces at the thought,
wondering, unable to determine where I will fall
among the kings and queens of 52. Universe 25
at 9:00AM waving undecided as the flowered blinds
bordered up against the strain of morning sky.

But the day is coming, no matter
how hard I fight. Time is a cruel dealer
and our winning streaks come to an end.
Another hand, another round of betting.
The fools laugh, the king reigns, diamond
and spade slide across table as strangers,
tainted, but quiet, and forced to look the other way.

Jacks low, deuces wild.
Aces high, aces high.

The Diary of Noel Edwards 12/6/2017

Women delight me.

I like their face, their shape, their eyes and subtle gestures particular to their sex. Of a specific caliber or class, I couldn’t possibly identify or name to be a favorite. I enjoy them all, femininity a la carte.

But my pleasure in them has never been so primal. Sex is a wonder in and of itself, but I’ve never been able to find joys or even the capacity to treat women as an object to be drained or sought for my mere enjoyment. To view the wonders of their lips and whispers as merely a source of a pleasure- a thing to be enjoyed and cast aside, or misused, I am incapable of. But I do enjoy them.

Monogamy is an atrocity to my affection. I can’t imagine settling for just one type of person every day. Alice is lactose intolerant, but still dabbles in yogurt. Makes funny faces at posters that seem over-indulgent, and spends most of our late night conversations worried about what the homeless are doing at that very moment. When we talk I feel my spirit wriggle free of daily conventionalities. As she describes the why’s as to her favorite kind of lipstick or misogyny, I’m able to let go of being over-sentimental, and laugh at the mundanity we all take so serious. Melissa is a different kind of liquor. Like my favorite kind of whiskey: tall, dark, and full of bad decisions. She sees the useless nature in all our useless endeavors. Cast a deadpan smile while she wiles the weekend morning away in pancakes and not-for-profit volunteering. Caring so much about the world, but refusing to let us know it. Bitter as lemons on a fresh wound, sweet as the aftertaste of scabs healing over.

They’re both so beautiful.

Then there’s Elsa, who I have no other attraction to other than the slender of her shape and attitude. A comely caramel for skin and a smile you could lie for- her eyes two coals that sit sharp like a pair of dice landing on snake eyes; deep black dots floating in a pool of milk filled with honey. Slender waist that drops like drapes into unforgiving legs, jeans that hug so snugly to the soft arches and tender dips of a shape that seems to be made for holding. Her voice has the gentle amplitude of money, powerful…but in your hands and deliberation, a bit worthless. She has no thought or words above the ordinary, and maybe her beauty is so blinding but, whoever needed intellectuals anyway?

Elsa, Melissa, Alice. They are all so beautiful. I want them each for their own reasons, but never for long or all at once. I can appreciate the delicate balance and attractiveness to their divisive characters. I could spend days with each of them, admiring all the facets of what makes them so unique in a world of copy pasted personalities. I love them for a while, under the gilded smiles of the moon and 4AM pillowed confession no Instagram or diary could ever fully reflect or comprehend. Alice, who reminds me to laugh because nothing is so serious. Melissa, full of bitter but still giving herself to a world that doesn’t deserve it. And Elsa, the beauty of beauty incarnate and made real.

Women delight me.

But only for a while.