Misgivings, et al.

Find your face plastered on a poster for everyone to see, find yourself being called “popular”; find yourself unable to hide behind your glasses because of a single photograph magnified, zoomed, pixel perfect portrait, oh what a pretty girl and at least the makeup looks smashing, darling; find yourself pining for sadness to fuel your art; find the universe conspiring to grant your fucked up wish, a single disappointing friend at a time, orchestra of Sorry and I can’t make it and the accidental I don’t care, line after line in the census of all things that sing indifference, like, No one loves you, et al.; find yourself returning the calls of a boy you swore you were done with, convinced loneliness would finally find its place to disappear somewhere between static and all the paltry things you use paint over your blatant, inexcusable desire, apprehension, how you know you really want this one despite all the warning bells, sirens singing the same song; find yourself swearing to keep a safe distance when you could barely keep your hair in place; find yourself purposely late for class, purposely asleep, purposely unkind; find yourself losing faith in good things, seeking out invisible strings tied to here or there or this or that, how everything has a price and you really don’t want to pay for someone’s indecision this time around; find yourself finally settling for refusals, plugging your ears with music that says Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

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Good day yesterday, semi-shitty day today.

Multiple choice

A. I suppose I should feel better about not having been writing, having been seemingly happier elsewhere, plagued with more immediate needs, concerns, things that burn (i.e., schoolwork, possibility of failing, sort of).

B. I suppose I should feel better about being good at something I used to think I was bad at- but now all they say is “Congratulations,” or “Your face, it’s everywhere,” and sometimes I want to veer from the standard thank-you, oh-wow, oh-thanks, to something more like so-what, so-what-now, so instead I end up saying oh-kay.

C. I suppose I should feel less given that exams are near and I really have to do everything I can to hold on, become something useful, said the mirror, said the mother, said the memory of someone I used to love.

D. I suppose I should feel, considering you called me first, called me pretty, but baby all I feel is pretty plain, plagued, pressured to perform perfectly else everything is picked apart, piece by piece so instead I say thank-you, passively let a passing person pursue me instead: feign interest, pretty please?

Sealed with a present

Strange habit of deciding important decisions when I give and receive presents.

Birthday just passed. Tried to write about it, failed. Haven’t written anything in about 2 weeks. Not trying to. Happy to be somewhat happy (calm, less preoccupied with volatile things, views).

In the middle of all that though I realize unfinished poem is about you. Maybe I’ll continue placing things in it in the passing days, make something out of what would have been someone (making no sense, sorry).

The end of the world as we didn’t know it

Thursday Never Looking Back!

Buy it, folks!

 

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On another note, stuff I’ve been reading the past few:

• Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers – Mary Roach
• The Floating Brothel – Siån Rees
• Selected Poems – Margaret Atwood

Exercises on self-destruction

 Premise: the world ending as a point in time when certain constructs and conveniences cease to exist. For example: I love you from Point A to Point B, with Point A being I can’t remember (day we rode your car, day we got way too drunk, or maybe that moment you played my favorite song, catching me off guard) and Point B being the point/s following:

The world ended when you left the room earlier than I, finishing the exam first, fireworks and firegods surging in through the windows shortly after – we were doomed and now who the fuck cared which answer was correct?

The world ended when you stopped reading poetry, stopped writing whatever song stirred through your ventricles, offering what remained of you to the girl who made it a point to disappear every now and then, teaching you to unlearn object permanence across continents and connecting flights, crooning Baby, baby, I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, oh baby, and the call melts into static as cracks slowly crawl on the walls and you try to find a word or two to tell yourself what’s happening, when will this end, please make it stop, please?

The world ended when I gave you your birthday present, wrapped in smoke, laden with charms from an ageing demi-god, and when you said Thank you, blankly, I looked into your black eyes and knew we were done – no more watching out for each other, waiting outside after class, after hours, wandering off into adventures, wasting the nights away – over: what I kept thinking when, months after, I delivered the last kind blow of a sledgehammer straight to your dying face.

The world ended when I let the waters reach my feet, letting the process proceed despite its unpleasantness: feet slowly growing scales guaranteed to shield from acid and toxins, the sea and all its waste, bones split to the marrow, forming fins so thin they could slice through drops of rain; once everything was in place, I knew my body was ready to face a world which no longer knew of songs or the warm glow of stars – a place wanting nothing of me and my human heart.

The world ended following the wrong phonecall delivered on a drunken night. Why are you with him? Said your voice over the noise, Why are you fucking with him? you kept saying so I said the truth you couldn’t and wouldn’t believe: It’s his birthday, and before I could explain anything a bottle of Bailey’s or Bacardi or Jager flew across the room, crashing into smithereens, muting out the receiver that echoed Bullshit! over and over and over as someone’s laughter filled the room.

The world ended when we answered No, closed fists, chests tightening: all those worlds within us ready, raring to spontaneously combust. Fireworks and the stench of a truth you could never forget. The wrong answer picked on purpose or, what we believed was an act of kindness.

Not with a bang

-but a whimper.

cover by Adam David

Poems “Variations on Armageddon“, “Again”, and “The Sky is Falling” are coming out in Thursday Never Looking Back, edited by Adam David. Said anthology aims to give you a dose of end o’ the world scenarios. Excited about this one. Have always fantasized about the post-/apocalyptic since godknowswhen.

Expect the end on the 21st, girls & boys.

PS Here’s Adam’s list of the initial table of contents. Guys. Just look at those names.

 

Where you can buy it.

 

Sources: Adam D., Eliza V.

A view from the room of refusals:

A set of artworks reflective of something that was past, passed on elsewhere, denied abrupt answer (No), the likewise apology it deserved.

A bouquet supposedly bequeathed for a former beloved, now far off, unlikely to associate her face with beauty, because (You stupid bitch, she remembers his breath on her back)- the bite before the broken bones, the bruise quietly blossoming by her rib cage. Heartbeats heavier than bricks.

A charred cigarette planted on the pavement, ash charting a path to where she would like to be (but could never choose to): chasing after him – comets, collisions, lips cracked from conditions of too little comfort. Inconsolable. A can of worms.  A city of coins gathered in an empty well.

A dialed number, hung-up prematurely, presupposing that a conversation with presumptuous person fond of disappearing acts wouldn’t be worth the decibels, the effort to diminish distance; decisions made and unmade (Don’t fucking do this to me again,)- dedications to the dearest deserter -

An epiphany: everything you love is erasable; evacuate your vessels and bones – find something unafraid of erosion, enduring electrons and earthquakes alike. Eat every morsel. Until your body yields nothing except explosions.