Menagerie of the Lost

A menagerie follows in your wake,

leading me astray.

A tiger for me, a unicorn for you, 

and some others I may have lost along the way.

what species were they, I can't recall. 

Were there legs and whiskers? were there any

tongues or claws? did they slither on the ground

and lay traps for me? lost now, all gone. 

my collection needs some new blood, 

new source of inspiration for instinct.

A hunting we will go, any time now. 

Just let me get over a hurdle or two 

you left scattered around my heart

and all will be set right.  

A Game of Gaps, Played by Mrs. S and Mr. R

Mr. Reasons wants to play a game of Gaps with Mrs. Shame.
It's time to deal, he says.
Mrs. Shame sends her regrets to Mr. Reasons. She can't deal.
Mr. Reasons does not accept regrets.
Mrs. Shame, who does not understand the rules, deals.
She waits for Mr. R. to take his turn.
Sometimes he takes long timeouts.
Mr. Reasons did not send any instructions, she realizes too late in the game.
She looks it up herself, she knows he doesn't like to explain.
Mrs. Shame types "what is Gap".
She applies the following definition and hopes for the best:
"Gap (noun): A break or a hole in an object or between 2 objects".
Mrs. Shame finds this example useful:
"A Permanent and Irrevocable Gap in Communication." 
Mrs. Shame mulls and deals again. 

Somehow she is always the one to deal.

They play the Gap game in a loop, like all games. Over and Over.
Sometimes it's Over and Out.
Mr. R. always wins, obviously.
He knows the rules and Mrs. Shame is still only guessing.
The card Mr. Reasons loves most is the Big Gap card. It's his lucky card.
He plays it at interesting intervals.
This always keeps Mrs. Shame on her toes.
When she's not paying attention, she falls into the trap.
Mr. R. Plays with more dedication to the game than to Mrs. Shame.
He thinks she loves this, or at least doesn't mind.
Mrs. Shame, after she puts her mind to it, thinks the Big Gap card is a red herring.
She looks for the card that counters the Big Gap card.
She mulls over irrevocable gaps in communication, and deals again.
It's a stalemate.

Making Music out of Nothing

Make nothing of it, he says, and he means like I do,
as he makes nothing of my stories of shameless love
or shameful regret. No need to fill the gaps, gaps are good as they are, 
empty of. If I fill them with reasons, they won’t be gaps anymore, 
and what can that do for my reasons? nothing.
Reasons are what they are, even if you don’t know anything
of them. Make something of the reasons you don’t know. 
Make nothing of the gap you don’t understand. The gap 
which opened under your feet as you walked towards me
when I called your name. By the time you had found the gap 
I was already thinking of my reasons. Don’t make something 
of it, mind. That could open a new gap which will need some 
filling with more reasons. I’m tired of reasons I don’t have. 
I’m tired of the reasons I do have also. Make nothing of 
my tired reasons. I’ll revive them when the time comes. 
In the meantime, while I make something of myself, 
you can think of something to say. You know you’ll regret it 
once you say something, so make nothing of your regret, 
just as I make nothing of your shame. Your regret 
makes nothing of me, and that I do make something of, 
that is a shame. Not my shame, just a shame. Your shame, 
well I don’t even know what to make of it. 
I had hoped you have none. When I loved you I loved your 
shamelessness. I have no use for your regret, 
specially when the reasons are here. I love it best 
when you make nothing of yourself when my reasons come up for air, 
at the end of every winter, and sometimes in the middle, 
when it gets really cold. Maybe my reasons love winter, 
I don’t really know much about them.
I have no use for your love when the reasons are here, though, 
I think I’ve said that. My reasons fill my gaps quite well, 
and your gaps, well, you fill with them as best you can.
And always remember, specially during the gaps: 
There is no need to make something of things such as this.

Great Impositions

I bestow the imposition of my emotions
on you. You started it. You imposed
your erections on me. What was I supposed to do
with your erections? forget their urgency?
impossible, as an instrument in their coming to be
you could not ask me such a thing. My roles,
instigator, worshiper, abater, user, permit me
such imposition. You beg to differ, I know.
Too late, too late, I cry. You should've thought
about it before you introduced me to one of life's
true pleasures, not after. Not while still imposing.
Not even now, older and wiser as we are.

My Unicorn Man's Smile

I told you after many weeks of silence 
something of importance. I said:
I had a dream this morning, now blurred. 
I had a unicorn friend. 
What was he doing around me I can't clearly remember.
Prancing around me all proud of himself, 
then gone with only a question left behind. 
As unique to me and as illusive, 
and that unmistakable horn between your legs, 
I can only conclude:
the dream was about my connection to your image. 

After all the weeks of silence, all you could find to reply
was a smiley.
Wow I said. I thought I could never feel ashamed
of my love and regret giving it. Until this.
You said there was no need to fill gaps in communication with bad feelings.
No need to feel ashamed you said, or full of regret.
No reason to make much of a thing such as this.
There are reasons, you said, and left it there.
I should have left it there too.
I regret to say I did not. I said less than I intended,
but more than I should have said.
No need for concern, I said.

I was simply amazed for a moment, enough to make something out of nothing. 

Anyone can make nothing out of anything, that's easy.  

It's the opposite - making something out of anything -  that is the true challenge of life. 

To that you had nothing to add.
Mercy be my friend, let you keep your silence.

Frank Exchange of Views - Napo day 4

We could have had some, you know
if we could handle the truth.
crisscrossing yours with mine and never converging
unless in bed of course, briefly
converging some body parts
and even there possibly not.
like you could hear me say I love you
and you'd say please don't
and I'd say too late, I do
and you'd say but I only wanted a little on the side
and I'd say but you said you loved me too
once, early on, some years ago
and you'd say you know it wasn't real
I didn't mean it, I only needed some revenge
and I'd say I think you do, you really really do
or you'd have gone bye bye by now
and you'd say, eventually, after a year or six
bye bye now, it was nice to have been in you
from time to time.
So since we ended at the same place
with the truth as without it, we really shouldn't have bothered
to suffer any truth at all, and we didn't, so we're good.
We made it all up from lies
I lied to you that I was fine,
and you lied to me about whatever was needed in the moment
and before, and after, and in-between
and I lied to myself all the time
and we both lied to everyone around us.
And after all is said and done, I'd say
there wasn't any need to be frank, to tell you the truth.

Shanty

What shall we do with a floppy member
what shall we do with your floppy member
Where shall we put this floppy member
Glory of the morning

hi no nothing doing
hi no boner going
hi ho no more boing-boing
early in the morning

what will he do with his woody goody
what can I do with this gooey goody
what's there to do with a droopy woody
Glory be thy morning

Hi ho prey more say more
hi ho Grey will pay more
Oh no there is no more
banging in the morning

Where will I take my lust this morning
now that he's flopped, laid to rest this morning
where is my toy, fuck that boy this morning
Glory alleluia

I hang my head in shame

I hang my head in shame
once for every day I loved you
of all the 1885 days of my love
from the beginning of our story.

I hang my head in shame
for all the days my love was wasted
once for each day of the 1885 days
less the 120 days in which you loved me.

I hang my head in shame
for all the days in which I didn't know
that my love was a waste
when I didn't want to know.

I hang my head in shame
for every thought I thought about you
day after day in which I didn't cross your mind
and I didn't mind enough to call it quits.

I hang my head in shame
for every sleepless night
for the sadness, and for the fear of losing
that which I did not have.

I hang my head in shame
for loving a man
who didn't care enough to stay away
when he knew he should.

First line from another poem

And a man waits in the streets to meet a woman

and the woman shows the man what he wants to want

and the man wants what he wants

and he doesn't show her what she won't want

and she doesn't look where he doesn't want her to look

and she averts her eyes from what she doesn't want to see

his life, her home, they fade far away.

so late in life they came to be

and nothing can be changed.

And his skin came alive under her touch

and her body stretched before him

and his eyes saw her and she felt good.

and they walked in the streets that became her dreams

and her dreams became the streets she walked in

for days and days until she lost track of what she was

of what she wants, of his fingers as they slip away, of him, 

and he lost her, and the way they were together

when they lived inside the inside of their soul.

Blubber

Hey old man: This is for you, specially. With love.

I found a morsel of beauty for your consideration,

from the bottom of my soul:

Enjoy that pickled blubber you call wife, you fool.

Learn to love the relentless chatter

day in, day out

in your face, on your phone,

in your house, on your bed.

In your bloody head.

It's simply too delicious to imagine:

Your walking/talking penis surrounded by it,

your body drowning in layers,

the whiney breath upon your cheek,

those flakey fingers crawling upon your skin.

Oh joy! A triumph.

Forget unicorns, laughter is much better for me. 

Isn't that just awful to admit,

utterly unkind.

Yet great in it's awfulness.

I laugh my eyes to tears when I see the words,

out loud, blurted from the inside of my living room.

Rats say "It's fabulous, darling".

Rats are ever so pleasing.

Unlike unicorns.