i feel movement
I’m impoverished, tightly squeezed and anxious, having spent too much on a camcorder and spectacles, the camcorder leading to the spectacles because I was recording myself and my specs were all askew, and these old specs have never been good for me, they came out of a slipshod eye test, IMHO, but the recent eye test was much more satisfactory and I’m getting two pairs made up, one for reading and one, graduated, for driving and perving.
I’ve used the camcorder to record a few grievances, and this has dug me further into the hole of my obsession. To release pressure I’ve written a few pieces, different for me:
un saison en enfer
I have no daughter, no mother
I have no women and
they don’t have me.
I consider looking up irredentism
or some odd African term from Blixen
while papers pile and skew
and tiny leaves blow in.
It’s a season I believe.
The computer holds me,
my personal computer.
A new facebook image, small, blurred, wild,
a raunchy rocker, but the familiar blazing smile,
really hapy in the moment smile, really really happy.
She knows how to be happy, how to care less,
how to delete the past, how to delete people.
I want to be like her sometimes, to be light and light others,
not to be burdened and burdensome,
squeezed suddenly by rage, blighted by sadness
My dark weight radiates
The fire cackles, my work is done.
I haven’t had a beer in a long time.
My dick still tingles from
her poses, attitudes, her many colours.
Such depth on a flat screen.
She’s relishing it while it lasts
The energy, the shape and contour
Those pale stark thighs, more knowing now, more bold
She’s plateaued on the peak
She’s obliterated her childhood
She’s having fun
She’s showing off
She’s soaking it up
She’s an animal
She’s living the fantasy
She’s made it
Don’t spoil it
My work is done, it’s slotted in the gap
and maybe it’ll stay there forever.
I feel powerful in a powerless sort of way.
Am I proposing a change for the better,
or am I just a jealous spoiler
struggling for my share?
No longer demure, except when she must be
for she knows about decorum, and decorousness.
No longer elfin and gracile, she stomps and flops.
She has embraced chunkiness and clunkiness
Her laugh booms out, unlovely and loved.
She is beautiful, my heart clatters to the floor.
She might be watching me watching her, and I have to watch it for she’s on the watch, but then maybe knowing I’m watching, or hoping I am, or wanting someone to be watching, or knowing they are, or not caring, she kisses and frots, and I watch, and she’s not watching me watch, or she’s only watching her, or only watching what she frots and kisses, or not that even, her eyes clamped shut, gripping sensation.