Before you read on any further, let me start off with an apology.
Last night, I was going to write a poem. A real life, honest to goodness poem. Or something close to one, something that was definitely going to be something, or rather, some sort of something, at the least. Whatever that something was going to be, it was going to be a real sort of something. A deep sort of something, something deeper than real life, an open your eyes sort of something, something great, something to stir imaginations, his and hers and yours and maybe even [finally] mine, something that could lift me up and out of this 9-5 brick and mortar grave entrapped by some crudely painted backdrop that hides a whole lot of nothing behind it, something to lift me out of the confluence of living and dying all in a week, all in a day because [trust me] that gets pretty fucking exhausting and pretty fucking quickly, too. I was going to write something to fix me, and believe you me, I was so close, so close I could actually picture it: scoliosis gone, shoulders finally straight, neck no longer slouching, head held high so I could finally see my place in the world, finally see some sort of belonging. It was going to be something beautiful, and oh, to create something beautiful, what higher purpose could there possibly be? I was going to be a poet, a writer, an artist, a human being. I was going to be something, a real something, if only for one night, if only to meditate out loud in an empty room and recite hallowed verses and hurl them against the wall and hear them thrown right back at my face, to bask in the sweet reverberations of a reflective existence.
But then, pornography got in the way.
So you’re stuck with this.
But if you would be willing to believe me, if only for a few hundred words or so, then I would maintain that it’s not my fault.
If you’d be willing to believe me, I would tell you that I’m a victim of circumstance. I’m innocent. Or at least, not quite guilty. A chump, really, not quite a man and not quite a child, a nobody, a faceless face, some poor old dolt who got suckered into buy some magic beans that did nothing but give him gas.
If anything, you should feel bad for me.
So suspend disbelieve for just a few more moments and try to believe me.
Pornography got in the way.
I wasn’t even horny.
Well. Maybe I was.
Maybe I’m just lonely.
Maybe my cock is just lonely.
Here’s the funny thing, though. Alone, we shower in our most reprehensible obscenities. We wade through them and try to scrape them off of our bodies, our naked, pale, flabby, shriveled, trembling crouching little selves. Yet they permeate through our pores, slice through us like tiny little daggers and expose our insides. We spill out of ourselves and [take my word for it] it is a messy and unattractive site. And we do it over and over again because we never learn. We are a revolving door for our atrocities, and that scares us and it’s all for the wrong reasons. Because we think, what could be worse than our human flaws when they’re flapping freely in the wind, cocks and tits just flailing about in mid-sprint.
We pray nobody is looking.
We’re too terrified to actually see if anybody is.
But pornography? Oh, pornography. We flaunt our pornography. We carry it with us, whip it out, see whose is bigger louder stronger harder faster sexier. We hoist it up above our heads, mash it in faces, let it ring out, sing out, drone out everything else and everybody else because everybody else must hear it and if they can’t, you’re clearly not doing it right.
Every day is a parade for pornography.
And why not? Instant gratification at the end of your fingertips, the tips of your tongues, just rub the lamp [watch yourself] and receive your wish.
I wish I could write.
Run away to
Don’t worry. I don’t really understand what I’m saying, either.