Archive for November, 2011

birthed in fire

Posted in Uncategorized on November 12, 2011 by darryl zero

My age shows every time I go out after sundown, feeling increasingly out-of-place in places where young people throw themselves into paroxysm, finding zero appeal in the thirty-second bits of song that wind and shift their way through the DJ’s sets. I’ll be the first to admit some of it is cultural; this is a distilled, refined, and wholly uninteristing iteration of something evolved from something in which I was tangentially interested once, albeit with a completely different angle of approach. Now, my discomfort flirts between apathy and antipathy as I plug my ears and hope my back doesn’t spasm while I’m somewhere people can see me.

They Can’t See Me takes its name partially from the Hum lyric, partially from the notion of my disinterest in social convention even as it gets me closer to something relevant to my interests. I don’t know why I thought going out was a good idea; all I am is tired and sore, hoping something as interesting as the fight I just saw the short asshole pick with a bouncer happens again, albeit without the fisticuffs.

And, as if on cue, it happens again. White guy getting manhandled by some African dude; bouncers intervene in short order, African dude tries to talk his way out of getting thrown the fuck out.

I almost wish I bounced.

I don’t want to work tomorrow.

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because I do, every now-and-then, write poetry like I was 17.

Posted in Uncategorized on November 9, 2011 by darryl zero

(This is tentatively called “Why I Fuck Around.” It’s written somewhat in-character, so I feel compelled to tell you this, lest someone misinterpret it and make my life needlessly more complicated. Except a particular individual whose misinterpretatitons make my life entertaining, albeit at the expense of my peace-of-mind. Hi, person-who-shall-remain-nameless. This is not for you, but I’m sure you’ll find some way to twist it into something marking me as an unsavory character. But hey, it’s an ostensibly “free” country, so more power to you.)

(Okay, actually, it’s not really written in character so much as it describes a hypothetical, imagined situation. Or series of situations, really I haven’t sorted all those bits out yet. Why I feel the need to explain myself, largely for the benefit of a person to whom I feel neither the need nor the obligation to explain anything save for my irritation at their sudden interest in the minutiae of my life and subsequent need to lie about it for no real reason other than to lash out at the person to whom they’re lying.)

(Hold on a minute; gotta drive this bus a mile or so.)

(Okay so, having driven for a bit to think, I also want to apologize for having written this in 2nd person. “Writing” this—oh, fuck it. You get it.)

“Why I Fuck Around”

(Oh, shit. Gotta drive again. Back in fifteen minutes…)

(Okay, back. Where was I? Why in the hell am I getting meta-referential like this? OKAY, THE POEM ALREADY)

Why I Fuck Around

The energy of the smile, eyes the color of your mother’s,

cheeks swooping gently into the point of her nose that juts out a little too far for her tastes,

cheek pressed to your collarbone as her lips graze your jawline

and you close your eyes then, drunk on her attention,

reminding you of the first time you saw her,

looked into those eyes the color of yours,

traced lines over lips the shape of a lie you were rude enough to recognize

and tried not to dream about the swell of her breasts or the smell of her neck,

the curve of her hip beneath your fingers

as you stare past those eyes the color of the sea

hoping for something other than the awareness of something-that’ll-do-just-fine.

Her lips to yours, the sound of her holding her breath

pressing her mouth to yours too securely to know this is against everything you were taught,

there is a firmness to her bosom, a perfect curvature,

the equation of her perfectly symmetrical and round,

strong and sturdy,

which reminds you she is old enough to know better

and you are old enough to remember being old enough to know better.

It’s the first thing they taught you after the important things,

after the names of all the members of the X-Men and Justice League and Blood Syndicate,

after the lyrics to every Nirvana song and the name of every Bill Laswell-produced album of the 1990s

and every last line from “Aliens,” “The Empire Strikes Back” and “The Adventures Of Buckaroo Banzai:”

that no woman on this planet wants to know you

that they don’t really care if you’re nice to them until you’re too old for it to be anything other than a desperate push to remember what being nice felt like

that you are nothing until you grow those shoulders like your eyes like your father’s

and dreadlocks down to your ass,

and become so tired of trying to guess what’s going on behind eyes the color of hers

that you play along solely for the nostalgia of remembering what it was like when she was the only mystery worth knowing.