(no subject)
I sat down to write here and found myself staring at the computer screen.
I have never acquired the talent of writing spontaneously on paper,
letting the ink of my pen sink deep into the paper. Spontaneity happens on a computer because when
I fuck up it's quite easy to destroy the evidence. If anything,
I could get by with a pencil; something about it is far more forgiving.
Pencils have a soft, sort of forgiving flow to them--when the lead
has been worn down just right it strokes over the paper with a sort of sweet, relaxed softness. Let
the anguished poets have their scratchy, scrambled and frenzied ink; I will take
sweetness and slowness and mellow charcoal.
That is stanza one.
I discovered only a few months ago how to write a poem about what I felt
rather than on words. I like words, they are soft and hard, lustrous
and dull, full of longing to be arranged neatly and artistically (and probably pretentiously).
I have written quite extensively on my feelings about words, it was
one of my college essays and it was, I will say, quite good. But a Boy made me
write about my feelings, because they were his
fault.
To say they were his fault is not to lay blame because
fault is not negative; technically they are his fault because he caused them
and it's quite distressing that he only taught me how to write
from my heart after he had broken it. If he could
have taught me to write love, I believe it would have been vastly preferable.
What a scrambled bit of poetry this is here.
I've been thinking about a poem for years that someday I will write;
It's called "Being Catholic" and it speaks about my experiences--
a Boy will be featured in the story of my losing my virginity, and
I will write about my beautiful friend who thinks about nothing but whatever substance she can put into her body
and I will write about being a faghag and the way I flirt and wink and love everything about my beautiful men,
the way that when I dance, I move my hips, sensual sexual sexy, and dare the boys to come dance with me.
There will be a rather good part about the way you can feel their boners through their pants,
about which no teenage girl at her prom should ever be angry; why be angry
that you are attractive? Why ever be angry that a man, anonymous in the dark of the music,
would take you in his arms right there? Why be angry that he would push himself into you until you breathed together in sweetness?
He may not be handsome, but you danced with him, and the word "catholic"
means universal in extent, broad-minded.
So I will be Catholic, when I want, and I do not need church to be spiritual because I find spirituality in
my body that is no longer pure, I find it in my beautiful girl who still loves God, I find it in the gay men with whom I make up elaborate fantasies involving shirtless poolboys, and I find it in the way that a nameless man moves himself against me in the dark in the music.
And I will sing hallelujah, halleujah, amen, praise the lord
Jesu Christi you are my savior
And you can save all of us on this planet
because there is spirituality in the trees, on the rooftops, and in the gutters if it is anywhere.
Hosanna, hosanna to the highest.
I don't really know what happened here... I think I just needed to write something. Sorry it's a mess haha
I have never acquired the talent of writing spontaneously on paper,
letting the ink of my pen sink deep into the paper. Spontaneity happens on a computer because when
I fuck up it's quite easy to destroy the evidence. If anything,
I could get by with a pencil; something about it is far more forgiving.
Pencils have a soft, sort of forgiving flow to them--when the lead
has been worn down just right it strokes over the paper with a sort of sweet, relaxed softness. Let
the anguished poets have their scratchy, scrambled and frenzied ink; I will take
sweetness and slowness and mellow charcoal.
That is stanza one.
I discovered only a few months ago how to write a poem about what I felt
rather than on words. I like words, they are soft and hard, lustrous
and dull, full of longing to be arranged neatly and artistically (and probably pretentiously).
I have written quite extensively on my feelings about words, it was
one of my college essays and it was, I will say, quite good. But a Boy made me
write about my feelings, because they were his
fault.
To say they were his fault is not to lay blame because
fault is not negative; technically they are his fault because he caused them
and it's quite distressing that he only taught me how to write
from my heart after he had broken it. If he could
have taught me to write love, I believe it would have been vastly preferable.
What a scrambled bit of poetry this is here.
I've been thinking about a poem for years that someday I will write;
It's called "Being Catholic" and it speaks about my experiences--
a Boy will be featured in the story of my losing my virginity, and
I will write about my beautiful friend who thinks about nothing but whatever substance she can put into her body
and I will write about being a faghag and the way I flirt and wink and love everything about my beautiful men,
the way that when I dance, I move my hips, sensual sexual sexy, and dare the boys to come dance with me.
There will be a rather good part about the way you can feel their boners through their pants,
about which no teenage girl at her prom should ever be angry; why be angry
that you are attractive? Why ever be angry that a man, anonymous in the dark of the music,
would take you in his arms right there? Why be angry that he would push himself into you until you breathed together in sweetness?
He may not be handsome, but you danced with him, and the word "catholic"
means universal in extent, broad-minded.
So I will be Catholic, when I want, and I do not need church to be spiritual because I find spirituality in
my body that is no longer pure, I find it in my beautiful girl who still loves God, I find it in the gay men with whom I make up elaborate fantasies involving shirtless poolboys, and I find it in the way that a nameless man moves himself against me in the dark in the music.
And I will sing hallelujah, halleujah, amen, praise the lord
Jesu Christi you are my savior
And you can save all of us on this planet
because there is spirituality in the trees, on the rooftops, and in the gutters if it is anywhere.
Hosanna, hosanna to the highest.
I don't really know what happened here... I think I just needed to write something. Sorry it's a mess haha