I have never known a woman to be more beautiful than after she has orgasmed. Maybe that is a bit risqué to say. A little inappropriate, sure.
But, there is a glow in flushed cheeks. A smile, carving away years at a time. The secret to a long life isn’t kale, it’s a good fuck.
In a world of memes and ten-second videos, the average reader’s attention span is probably too short for a long intimate conversation about anything, even if it is sex. So, in lieu of that I interrupt your read with some light poetry:
Well I found the girl of my dreams
Her face was in the tea leaves
The divination divined my destiny
She was the girl for me
Reminded of my yesterdays
Of love letters to Dorothy Gale
I’ve been baselining romance
Since tender ages
Growing up, I don’t think I knew one functional relationship. I lived in broken homes, with broken people. Surrounded by broken toys and broken dreams.
I snorted white picket fences before I snorted pretty white powder. Free fell through A Shadow Of The Wind, screaming at Clara to love Daniel. If you haven’t romanticized, and your attention span hasn’t fallen to that of a gnat, go read the book.
Another poem for my Attention Deficit brethren:
She is a beautiful mess
Like paint splattered against blank canvas
She talks about people like they are places
Carefully discovered, traveled and intimately known
I think her feet leave heart imprints and stardust in their wake
She was born with the word ‘love’ etched on her skin
You may chase her, but she will never be yours, my friend
I smile a faded smile at my son, wondering if he will heed my words when I tell him to never grow up. I’ve been staying up late at night, feeding my addictions. Shots of whiskey chased with poems by Bukowski. Drinking in the poetry, letting it kill me inside. I never got the nihilist memo and my cup is half full. Of hopes. Of dreams. Of love.
I hid in small spaces filled with uncertainty. The screaming reverberated around the house. That’s not love. Even when I was young, I knew. Love doesn’t equate to holes in the wall.
When I put my fist through a wall. Nevermind. Now isn’t the time. Another poem, shall we?
Find me around the bend
On a bender, fading fast
Pick me up from the rubble
Of my own self destruction
I’ve been burning
I’ve been boozing
I’ve been missing you
Clean me up
Lord knows I need a shave
You can nick my skin
Just to remind me what it feels like
To be alive again
Well my blood is thin
As my weak constitution
And I’ve been fighting with my demons
I aint afraid to admit
I’ve been losing
But find me round the river bend
Soaked in fear and sinking feelings
Pull me up and dust me off
When I go spiraling, friend
Take me home
Take me home
I’m afraid I won’t last
If you don’t
Take me home
“Never grow up.” He smiles at me. He doesn’t know how serious I am.
I used to put holes in the wall. Growing up but not actually doing any emotional growing, I punched the wall. Until the fateful day I hit a stud and broke my knuckles in two. A divine intervention, stopping me in my tracks as I screamed out the word ‘fuck’. It was many years ago, but on cold days like today it feels like it was only yesterday. The pain lingers, reminding me to walk away.
I was born with passion intrinsically written in my DNA. Learning to live with fire is learning how not to spontaneously combust.
I have fought, with passion. I have fucked, with passion. I have lived, with passion. And as I retire myself to a fifty hour work week and fatherhood, I have written, with passion.
Is it time for another poem? I may have one or two left.
She said she was but blood and bones
Skin stitched together my scars and woe
As with most women, she was so much more
I saw her like the first ray of sunlight
Cutting through the air in shades of crimson
A visage unable to capture in frames
Her beauty could best be seen
In person or in tea leaves
I have never known another life than my own. Simple statements like that keep me from judging anyone. Flawed, broken, but alive. The last part, I have to constantly remind myself.
I am alive. I was born to feel things a little too much. I fed myself servings of love growing up. It got me through the uncertainty and the constant fights.
This is a mess. If you take nothing from it but a book recommendation, I wouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes I talk aloud in empty rooms. Saying things I long to hear. Words I need. Simple statements like ‘I am alive’ to remind myself not to slip away and die.
One of these sleepless nights, I may write that book. Syrupy and sweet, pouring my own love like whiskey on love-stained pages. One last poem to say goodbye:
Yeah, my bloods a little weak.
I had a fire but I feel poured down the sink. I need to get in touch with reality,
two feet on the ground just isn’t enough.
Trying a bit too much to keep myself at evens.
I’m at odds with myself.
Working through a shaggy demeanor like burning the candle at both ends
in the dead of the night.
She was right about my constitution when she shouted and she screamed.
And though her knees were bloody,
it was my heart aching that day.
The biggest lie I told was “I’m okay”,
and though I know apologies won’t suffice;
I’ll still try.
The man in the mirror doesn’t look like me.
But, he sure has my brown eyes.
These clothes don’t fit quite like they used to.
I guess they fit alright.
It’s not a defeated demeanor just when you know you’ve had enough.
I’m sloshing through,
and sipping, too.
The seasons change around me.
I’ve been up.
I’ve been down.
I’ve been all over the place
I’ve been in love
I’ve been in lust
I’ve been lost and found
Found and lost
But, I still believe
And though my constitution may be a little weak
I still believe in us
In tea leaves