#06: In My New York Cell
In my cell, time doesn’t move the same.
You dwell mostly in the past.
Or some far off, seemingly hopeless future.
The blame, the blunder, a hand in the blender. You stand still, but I stand last.
I try. Toothless, seven ways drugged,
And I do dream of you.
But I cannot be unfollowed, cannot be debugged.
That is because torments weigh on me and keep me from visions of happier times.
Self-hate overwhelms. I long for death, black death is a lullaby, banged out in rythmes.
You learn to hate your best in a cell. Too much time to spend on the past,
The future is just a glimmer through a keyhole. The plexiglass rattle, I know it too well.
I whisper your name.
To the rats and roaches that are my only witnesses. I extol your virtues to a homeless Lune who sought solace in a delayed suicide.
Tried it twice and will try again upon his release.
The aim is the same as the evil that grins on the inside.
Your name has more fulfillment, than the meager rations or the stake recycled air.
I say it aloud and it is like the hurricane outside is a product of our passions, a fitting cap stone to our separation, your hands on my heart, cry out from the fuck, the pull of the hair.
It bears down on the city, beware!
And could render my captivity and chemical manacles, tear the whole goddamn place apart. You looked into me, I looked into madness. The fall fell on me, nothing is fair.
I fade in and out. That, then this.
I try and count the meager learing kisses.
I’ve received from you in just the first five weeks of a courtship.
They took me just three weeks from our very first kiss, the flail of a dying animal akin to the sink of a Titanic sized flip. A capsize, at best.
If each kiss was a bullet or hand grenade used against our faceless oppressors.
I’m sure I’d be here longer.
Is this punishment, or just a test?
I am drunk still on those kisses.
Drunk on the past.
Intoxication is no good substitute for really feeling.
I desire you still. I desire you first and desire you last,
All about you! Every fake smile, every stolen moment we ever have left.
Free me from this place Dasha!
I cannot be a whole, without you, there will be theft.
Right now, without you holding me upright last night, or in a fort night.
I love you limitlessly.
I wish that I could open myself like a Siberian doll.
Open each part until understanding becomes possible, or at least there might lie hidden a jewel to steal. Something to get us through the awol.
But I fear, each layer comes with more questions and there is no jewel, only madness and a blood diamond.
Shines with a price. All men undone, all.
Unbreakable but such toughness has heightened emotional cost.
I am neither a phantasm or a ghoul, or mad man lost!
Not a demon or an angel either, nor some hybrid like you! I have purpose to spare, I have hope, I have ever been broken, ever been tossed!
We are unique specimens. And the world has punished me for my loudness and perhaps rewarded you for your beauty only to punish you in other ways.
A lot of worth we are, with a lot of trouble. We shall get worse in the coming days.
I hope my poems survive me.
I hope you are wrong every night you say “it is our last night”.
You’ve been wrong a very good number of times before. You kill me, you go and revive we.
Mostly only about that last part.
My art, is thriving under your casual supervision. I hope my life these days is a testament to your glory and not self-glory. Things fuck around, things fall apart.
I cherish you;
I am a slave to what we might be.
Not what are we.
I would do many tragic things to prove myself a hero.
Again, and again. The counter clicks down to explosion, in increments of one, one zero,
I do not have to prove I am brave;
only brave enough, well enough to fully love. To fully behave in the pursuit of a meaningful save.
Love early, love often, and love with complexity building to completion. “Maybe even fun?”
And then you will forget your slavery and your grinding imprisonment.
From out of this cell I’ll grab your hand, and we will get gone, we will run.
Spend my last days keeping you happy,
As though flowers sprout from the barrel of a gun.