Confessions Piece September 22 2024

“I FUCKED UP”

I showed my hand! I folded. I bent to my desire. I bent over, I let you bend me over.

I have carried a torch for you, I have carried 1000 torches. 1000 birthday candles lit on the shrine I built for you when I should have been working on myself…

When you left I wept in the chair you once sat in. I looked in the mirror and tried to mimic your facial expressions. I needed to understand how you felt, to method-act my way to understanding. I said:

“All the world’s a stage, and a low-budget porno!” I said:

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry angel, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

I took a shower and stuck the hair that fell out to the wall. When I was finished I tried to read the tangle of hair like tea leaves at the bottom of an empty cup. I wanted to feel like I could see the future, have some kind of premonitory knowledge of my life’s path, distract myself from the anxiety that I’m losing too much hair…

It is not beyond my capacity to understand, to be moved even, by the idea that someone would hijack their own life and fly it straight into One World Trade for the promise of a thousand virgins in paradise.

When it comes to shooting your shot, you choose buckshot. Double tap, no commitment, 30 pretty girls per minute, and when it comes to PGPM that’s good numbers. With my moon in Sagittarius, all fiery ambition, I shoot my shot with my bow drawn taut, and try to nail you right between the eyes. In the lovely words of Norah Jones, “I shoot the moon and miss completely.”

As a child my sexual awakening came in the form of Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book. It was meant to look like the diary of a Victorian child who, instead of pressing flowers, pressed fairies. It was quite graphic, complete with all the bodily juices that soaked into the paper when the fairies went SPLAT. And it was very erotic, they all had big naturals, splayed legs, shattered wings - one fairy modestly trying to cover her pert little ass with her dress in her final moments. Most of them were making lewd faces, “sticking their tongue out for the picture” one might say, an act of mischievous rebellion in the face of their demise. It made me horny, oooh, press ME between those pages, ooh all press is good press dontcha know.

Once again I am not beating the crazy allegations. I am but mad north-north west, when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk tuah handsaw - or whatever Shakespeare wrote. But like Lady Cottington’s pressed fairies, I laugh in the face of defeat. I live for the cartoon brawl, illustrated by a cloud of dust, with various limbs emerging from and disappearing into the smoke filling the room at Gonzo’s.

“Yee-OW! You really hurt me!” I scream as my rubberized body bounces back from the blow stronger than ever.

I love this game, the Wile E. Coyote explosion, for ‘tis the sport to have the engineer hoist by his own Peter, excuse me, I mean petard. Neo-Freudian slip. For love makes retards of us all.

A niche downtown creative will call your 10 month situationship a “collaboration.”

Look at me, I am the creative now and you are my muse. So even if I end up as a footnote in a kooky font in the meme poem of your life, or a fairy pressed between the pages of the second book you’ll never write, at least in my final moments I’ll be flipping you the bird! (Then SPLAT)

Oh God, I love being bad too much.

I have to picture heaven now. Where all resentment and shame falls away and we’re joined in peace. Without want for anything, with infinite time and youth, without fear. I picture cities of white stone, a green valley stretching endlessly to the sea, the bright eyes of every friend, all forgiven. A single bird, miles above us like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, shining in the face of God.

And then I think: Backshots here.

Thank you