I don't look like other poets.
People hardly believe it when I say
"I write poetry, sometimes.
During lonely evenings."
Did I write that line, or did I dream it?
My allergy medication makes me sleepy,
gives me tactile dreams.
In any case: there is nothing else to do,
no one else to talk to,
but myself, in verse.
Today, I accounted for every gift I've given him.
While poking at the calculator, I realized
I do not love him anymore.
On my sheets, he is now just an outlay,
an expensive habit: smoking, drugs, alcohol, preferable
to chasing boys to get between their legs,
for them come between yours, once in a while,
after some persuasion, sob stories of
loneliness, deprivation, sadness.
No other poems, except about boys.
What ever happened to literariness,
to high seriousness?
Fucked out of me.
March 2013: Decided to pen something up again
after two years of thinking words were unkind to me.
Sometimes I wish you'd love someone like me:
a stuttering, shameful trainwreck of a queer,
So I sit here trying to write poems all day
and nothing.
Whatever it was that allowed me to do what I did,
it's gone, maybe forever.
I have said everything, and meant everything.
I used these words to wash me clean.
Now, not a single blemish remains.
Only my natural ugliness,
hideous as the day I was born.
"Whatever it was that allowed me to do what I did,
it's gone, maybe forever.
I have said everything, and meant everything."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's your poem.
The fear of being a written, not a writer.
I would hate to be loved for my poems.
(Hah. Also, my post following yours w/ similar title had nothing to do with this; was thinking about the Penny Goring quote. Unless it was subliminal influence.)
"I have said everything, and meant everything."
Except what's being said about what was and is still meant. This is blatant and honest with some humor in needing a calculator mixed in with the almost resignation. *
"Whatever it was that allowed me to do what I did,
it's gone, maybe forever.
I have said everything, and meant everything."
I find the voice of lament in this piece to be quite convincing. There's beauty in the ache of it, too.