Desultory and Impulsive

[y=mx+b]

Its been well over some time
Since he last turned
The picture of her
Over in his wallet.

Running his thumb across the blank white back of it he studied her features with his memory of how she looked.

Her eyes
Her slight smile
Her hair

How she looked at him
Made eye contact with him
Each and every time he were to look at it

And look at her.

Because it really wasn't
Just a picture of her.

It was everything
And all he had of her

Of them
Together

Kissing
Laughing
Loving

Making out
Finger fucking
Thrashing about
Clothes and hair and naked skin

Sunlight and sweat

Nature
Their nature.

How did she have it all?
How did she bring it all out of him?

And he
In his hand

...just a picture.

A photo
A piece of paper
He kept of her

And married to his heart.



He toyed with the idea of turning the picture over. He really thought about it. He could see himself doing it. He could feel his actions. --his anticipation.

But he knew that if he did
He would fall
All over in love.

 

[y=mx+b]

intermission​

 

[Moochienanu]

Its been well over some time
Since he last turned
The picture of her
Over in his wallet.

Running his thumb across the blank white back of it he studied her features with his memory of how she looked.

Her eyes
Her slight smile
Her hair

How she looked at him
Made eye contact with him
Each and every time he were to look at it

And look at her.

Because it really wasn't
Just a picture of her.

It was everything
And all he had of her

Of them
Together

Kissing
Laughing
Loving

Making out
Finger fucking
Thrashing about
Clothes and hair and naked skin

Sunlight and sweat

Nature
Their nature.

How did she have it all?
How did she bring it all out of him?

And he
In his hand

...just a picture.

A photo
A piece of paper
He kept of her

And married to his heart.



He toyed with the idea of turning the picture over. He really thought about it. He could see himself doing it. He could feel his actions. --his anticipation.

But he knew that if he did
He would fall
All over in love.

I honestly wish
That I had the picture you do.

Don’t get me wrong,
I keep one,
Deep in my heart...
But it isn’t physical.

And I don’t want to say that I’m jealous,
But I guess I probably am.

 

[y=mx+b]

Holy fuck.

Willing?

 

[y=mx+b]

I honestly wish
That I had the picture you do.

Don’t get me wrong,
I keep one,
Deep in my heart...
But it isn’t physical.

And I don’t want to say that I’m jealous,
But I guess I probably am.

You speak of jealousy?

Is not the subject you wish to have as a mere photograph in relative proximity to you?

 

[y=mx+b]

Body says yes, brain says no.
Or maybe, the opposite.

I can work around either way.

 

[Moochienanu]

You speak of jealousy?

Is not the subject you wish to have as a mere photograph in relative proximity to you?

He is,
But of His facial features,
I must use memory.

 

[y=mx+b]

He is,
But of His facial features,
I must use memory.

But you get to touch his face. And you know you will.

I would much rather have the awareness and promised knowledge of that than being left to wonder with just a piece of paper or static pixels on a phone.

Souvenirs of a memory
Being moth eaten by time.

 

[y=mx+b]

This song reminds me too much of my dumbass wannabe skateboarder teenage-self trying to be all cool and alt-aggressive to attract the popular hot chick that didn't think she was hot.

Didn't work.

Now here I am; an adult, posting dumb moody emo poetry shit on an internet bulletin board.


I should have tried out for football until I made the team.

 

[y=mx+b]

Actually...

That's not remotely true.


I mean... it kinda is. The music and skateboard part. Alt-aggressive type shit. Yeah sure. But never really to attract bitches. Popular or not. Genuinely largely out of fun and to get out a lot of self hate.

 

[y=mx+b]

No matter.

Whenever the song comes on at work, there is a little bit of an internal face-palm where I think to myself "ugh... what was I thinking?"

 

[y=mx+b]

But yet at the same time...

...the song comes on and I'm like

"Yeah... fuck you jocks and all you jersey chasing whores!

Fuck you
And you
And you"


All until I am overcome with the desire to do push-ups and recover by crying in the shower.

 

[y=mx+b]

Anti-everything!
ANTIEVERYTHING!

 

[y=mx+b]

Have we reached the next page yet?

 

[y=mx+b]

Fucking seriously?

 

[y=mx+b]

Thank God.

 

[y=mx+b]

I would think we hung out together in HS.
Except I’m older.

I hate the jocks to this day. They beat up my brothers and my guy friends because they could. Steroid neck losers.

Age difference or not
I'd let you cry in the shower with me.

 

[y=mx+b]

Thanks.
No more tears, just a bitter aftertaste.

I guess that's why I'm here.
To help however I can.

 

[y=mx+b]

Remember when I spit in your mouth?

 

[catherinewheel77]

Remember when I spit in your mouth?

Yes, it tasted like Dr. Pepper Hubba Bubba.

 

[Moochienanu]

Intermission?

https://media3.giphy.com/media/Vy5HEjPo4kA6s/giphy.gif?cid=19f5b51a15fa3e01e223b5a27141cff2d2e3114d6b174494&rid=giphy.gif

 

[y=mx+b]

https://media3.giphy.com/media/Vy5HEjPo4kA6s/giphy.gif?cid=19f5b51a15fa3e01e223b5a27141cff2d2e3114d6b174494&rid=giphy.gif

inDEED!

 

[y=mx+b]

she sent me a message on instagram
saying

This poet makes me think of you


I replied with a rose.


I'm never really sure how to reply to such things.



It's wonderful to receive any kind of attention
and to know that I'm able to be seen... outside of myself? outside of here?

outside of where I am?



But at the same time
There is this element...

Like an ex-lover
Saying "So I'm seeing this other person. And well... they do this thing this certain way and it really reminds me of you."



It's such a grey area you know?
I mean... on the one hand it's like... "I really do make an impact! I really do matter! I'm carried beyond and seen in the acts and actions of other people!"

But at the same time...

I'm right here.


I'm right
Fucking
Here.

You know where to find me.

You know where to read my thoughts
my feelings.

You know how to get a hold of me.


But that there is psycho possessive bullshit and I let it go.



So I do my investigation into this person. First. I click the attached post she included in her message. Read the comments under it.

First comment:
"This is what qualifies as poetry today?
Wish there was a runaway steamroller nearby to put my skull under."




I... Fucking... Love it!

best fucking comment fucking ever!


Right then and there I'm sold
and without doing any further research I see the similarites between us. I don't even need to read any more of his shit.

So I don't
for the most part.


And for the most part the rest of his instagram is pictures of him being all Portland... not that he is from there lives there blah.. blah... blah... just saying I felt like cracking open some kind of IPA micro-brew and setting in.

clicked on his youtube link.
skipped through much of his video.

Stopped right at a point where he's on stage reading...
"when we go we are all going to go... I will be part of it."

"So... because of the chemical imbalance, I never really experience joy..."

and I'm like...

"Yep. another mirror"



And so I question...

Why does she seek this out?



I go back to his instagram page.

pitches for his book
announcements for when and where he'll be reading his work next

pictures of devoted fans and followers with his words tattooed in hipster American Typewriter font on their bodies.







and that's where I stop and have kind of a moment.






it's a moment of wondering
about the separation between he and I.

this guy... people are getting his words tattooed on their bodies.
he's posting the images they share on his instagram page.

why are they doing this?

for him?

for themselves?


what's the drive? the motivation? the... devotion?



And so I sit here
typing you all these words
as I have since... fuck... 2003? in some way shape or form

not one of you; that I know of, had gotten any of my shit tattooed on your bodies





Which got me to wondering... is it because it's all here? all on lit?

what if once all this quarantine bullshit clears up I were to go public with this shit?
I live a stones throw or two away from some college towns.
I look pretty good in a black shirt.
I could take the time to actually edit my shit submit it to publications
I could take the stage
I could divert all the efforts I throw towards my thread here onto an instagram account.


but then... why?

He's already doing it.


I hardly want to click the "submit reply" button to have those of you who do read my shit read this shit that I just wrote. But I wrote a lot of it this time and fuck if I'm going to pull another me and delete it.

it's all just so fucking stupid.

 

[catherinewheel77]

It’s nice to read something that isn’t contrived bullshit. Or without affectation.

Your words resonate.

P.S. Apologies for my trite post from last night. It was the birthday booze talking.

 

[y=mx+b]

It’s nice to read something that isn’t contrived bullshit. Or without affectation.

Your words resonate.

P.S. Apologies for my trite post from last night. It was the birthday booze talking.

I asked a question. You answered. There is no harm in that. Nor anything to apologize for.