Filthy, dingy, disgusting and morbid.
That’s me. A hand where it shouldn’t, smothering your out.
A finger where it is seldom welcome, sliding in, bringing back out what is never welcome.
I shake my head back and forth, platinum hair flying, naked body lording it over you.
For once, I am stronger than you.
Awful, wrong, forbidden, horrifying and cute.
That’s us. Tongues intertwined, limbs flung all over the place.
I found out about the most intimate crevices of humanity, and what it takes to make a grown man cry.
I put my hands back in my pockets, and tucked away another memory of a time when I wasn’t me, and you were barely you. And it felt right, nice, safe. All the positives in a negative. All the negatives in a positive. All of our positives and negatives blurred into one and the same for me. I never blushed.
Instead, I spread myself thick, not hiding a thing, opening myself to you, blinking only honesty, breathing only invitation. My rigid torso told you volumes, my pale skin told you definitions, my blinding teeth bit into sweet flesh, and the only letters needed were “o” and “k”.
For a time, dark and twisted, we were just one single motion, two translucent, tattooed souls making the same sound. For a time, we spoke in sign, or we said nothing at all, and it was fine, too.
Then, like a shotgun blast, everything was turned around and destroyed. All the ugliness we made into an aria, all the dirt we made into Degas paintings, all the vulgarity made into Shakespearean sonnets, vanished before my eyes, like the sordidness morphed into beauty never existed, never mattered. Like the best of intentions slipped away, and I was left alone, trying to remember how to smile again.
And I still haven’t figured it out. A smile is not a smile unless you’re there to make a face filled with pain transform into a face filled with ecstasy. A soul doesn’t exist unless you’re there to fold it into your arms. I am not me unless you’re here to see my eyes light up when you walk into the room. Desire doesn’t exist in the world unless you exist in mine. The dream-world is nothing without the physical world, and I can’t live vicariously anymore.
Until you come back, I am as good as dead.
Filthy May 4, 2010
Getting over it, or how Al Green gets on my nerves October 6, 2009
Two things. Actually three.
1. You know how everyone always says the best way to get over someone is to get under someone? Well, check off my lucky number.
b) Whoever said that was full of shit.
And 4, why is Al Green’s “How Do You Mend a Broken Heart” a) in EVERY movie remotely having something to do with love, and 2-on ALL of the soundtracks to said movies? Honestly, I think I have at LEAST three soundtracks with that damn song on it.
Plus, he never actually ANSWERS the question. No, he just wonders around NYC and Boston and even the suburbs, ubiquitously asking the same stupid question over and over. Hey Al Green, here’s a thought. Instead of whining about it, why didn’t you do some scientific, sociological research, and THEN ask the question, and answer it for us in another verse. Hell, the next track on the album. Whatever.
[Author's note: I recogonize that a) Maybe he DID answer the question and I just never bothered to listen, and II) I DO have three copies of it, and could figure that one out myself, BUT I don't want to. I just want to hate.]
ANYWAY, so, I’m trying to move on and just enjoy the time with my friends, and get some flirting done here and there. I’m sincerely trying here. But it’s not working. He’s just seared into my mind. I need a lobotomy or that procedure from “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” except I’m not willing to let go of my memories.
Meanwhile, I have no regrets about the other night, B the W. I just wish that old adage worked. But I think it’s just an old wives’ tale…some sort of sorryass pun intended.
Prison Sex September 26, 2009
“I was so young, vestal then, you know it hurt me.
But I’m breathing, so I guess I’m still alive…”
I love that Tool song. I love Tool. I can’t honestly say that I can understand or identify with much of what is specific in their songs, particularly this one (I only just learned what “Stinkfist” was really about last year…naive!), but I don’t know, there’s just something inherently sexy and human about Maynard and his music. And I don’t just mean “sexy” like Justin Timberlake sexy, no, no, no, but pure, violent, beautiful, perverse, unique SEX. And I love and miss that.
I suppose I just miss sex, but I’ve been thinking about a LOT lately, about life and love and myself and what I want.
Question. Is it okay to have sex for the sake of having sex?
For some people, of course. And I maybe used to be one of those people. But now? Part of me says “what’s the point?” while another part says “yes, please!”
Universal dilemma. Can you really get over someone by getting under someone else? For the sake of research alone, I feel compelled to try. But I know I’ll be disappointed, and I know I will continue to be disappointed, unless I happen to find someone who feels the same way I do about Tool and Maynard James Keenan and abstract sexuality like mine.
AH! But the irony is, I already found that person. And I let him go. Or maybe he let me go. Or maybe we let each other go.
But I’m not finished. And I need help.
So. Do I keep getting back on the horse, no pun intended, or do I cross my fingers and pray and hope and wish on stars that The One Who Already Understands Me will come back?
I know, I know, if you love something, let it go…but is that enough? That’s not a guarantee.
Meanwhile, I am going to listen to Tool at top volume and find my way to a Newcastle. Pun intended.
