Placid with Pills and Poetry...
I take on addictions,
like lovers near and dear to me
Then break the habit surreptitiously-
puts the fear of God in me.
He and I take cigarette breaks
when sex is through;
He'll never get the heartfelt lectures
I once constructed for you.
(Je ne peux pas decider si c'est une honte.
Ou pas.
Je ne peux pas, peux pas.)
I hate my newest obsession
in keeping a wary eye
on the evolution
of my heart's own disenchantment.
I found a little red notebook long forgotten and tucked away, in which much of my old songs were written out, that I had feared were lost forever when Sean recorded over them on my mini-disc recorder.
I am torn between work at present- attempting to preserve older music and things that I write which I know will never make it into the band's repertoire and passionately, greedily scribbling out every lunatic thought or sticking phrase that comes to mind in hopes of compiling worthwhile lyrics and lingering melodies.
Everyone keeps asking what our name is. We remain nameless and I don't mind.
Someone asked what my geisha's name was yesterday. I could only tell them that she has one, but I cannot say it. I do not speak Russian, and have never felt the need to ask Denis what it was he named her, if he even can slip his hand into the thick cloud of that hallucinogen-altered evening and retrieve it.
Moving is disorienting.
Disenchantment of the heart rivals any force of blow from life's other disappointments. I am marking its progress carefully and meticulously. I do not find it depressing, perhaps only necessary. Much akin to shooting a rabid dog. Some things you love dearly but can not deter from hurting you nor any longer control. Even the memories of an idealistic time warp under the strain of complication and heavy-handed hurting. And is it not the nature of the beast to destroy, suppress or otherwise discard of that which we can no longer foresee any benefit from within ourselves?
My friends stare at me with maddeningly sad eyes when I say it, but
I do not want to search men's faces and smiles for anything but possible friendship.
I do not want to tap into the right words, gestures or moments for sake of spine-tingling memory.
I do not want complication, only the continuum of unimportant sex and a secret place in some nobody's arms for artificial comfort, de temps en temps.
Most of all I do not want to fall in love.
Not for a very, very long while.