Dead Poet Sobriety

Where are you taking me, Allen Ginsberg?
How much have we had to drink to-night?
Are you trying to get into my head?
Or my pants?
Either way, I’m too far gone to fight.

And so we wander the solitary streets,
With the pale, yellow, bulbous lights
You thought it would be funny to pee into
That Starbucks cup we found in the street.

Tomorrow someone will find it.
Still yellow, foamy, or perhaps
Brown, salty, dried-up in the sun.
Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.
You’re thinking about the future.

Chaos.

So we sit in a circle,
Beating off with twenty-nine generations of poets.
Thirty if you count mine.
Do you?

Frost doesn’t.
We read our poems to each other, and all he can say is:

“You might want to check your meter.”
Check this, you pretentious cunt.

But now I can’t take my eyes off Emily Dickinson.
She fingers herself in the full-moonlight
She howls.
Look at her go.
She would not stop even for Death.

Coated in starlit, murky, love-syrup.
We are as one now.
Children of the night.

Wordsworth agrees.
“We are thirty.”
We are all dead.
Yet we all live.

Each night, we raise the dead
With our poetry,
And we read to one another
Deaf and bland.

Remember, Remember, the blog of November

This past week-end, I saw Wolverine and the Mendicant again. They live together now. I’m over Wolverine, and this visit proved it. The only reason I went we to get my jacket back. There were five of us this time, and throughout the night, I couldn’t help but notice how maladjusted we all were. The Mendicant and Wolverine tried to molest me again while I more or less did defence. Amazingly, having a hot girl try to grab your ass over and over gets old pretty fast. Twice as fast when there’s an ugly, oily, hairy fat dude trying to grab the other cheek. He also tried to molest Thor, which was a mistake. He’s rather homophobic – having just moved to the city from Hicktown, Ontario. Thor spent much of the evening talking about how tough he was, and how he’d never hit a girl, and how the Mendicant had better not do whatever gross-ass thing he did again. There was also a girl with us who told us a lot of stories about how she and her 39-year-old cop-boyfriend got drunk and got into these really brutal fights with coke heads, and then went drinking with hookers. I won’t bother giving her a name, because I don’t plan on spending much time with her. We went to an old pool hall, and then to an old bar, where aging punks with ugly-ass Mohawks still hang out, even though some of them must be pushing fifty. And Nasty Nick was there. Apparently he’s always there. I learned from the Mendicant that when Wolverine tried to break up with him, he locked her in a room for a little while. I’d say that warrants an ass-kicking, but that isn’t my problem. Maybe some time she can sick Thor on him. Seedy bar culture gets old very quickly. I’m sure it would be cooler if we had vampires like in the Sookie Stackhouse novels, but we don’t. We do occasionally have cross-dressers, but they don’t have fangs. Anyway, this concludes my series on Wolverine.

Not Quite a Match

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I can’t deny that you’d be a great catch.

It’s the way that you smile,
Or get others to smile.
It’s a pleasure to watch your keen social style.

I could stare at your face for hours and hours.
Such insight! Such prowess! Such inspiring powers!
You’re queen of the ball,
Yet not proud at all,
You’re genuine, open,
An inviting call.

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I see a slightly torn heart I might patch.

Perhaps it is yours.
Perhaps it’s my own.
Perhaps an addiction, to which we’re both prone…

Perhaps I am wrong; the attraction too base.
Maybe I’m just in love with your face.
Your perfect, beaming, smart little face
I pray that naught ever dare mar that face.
No rashes, No more pimples
I’ll allow a few dimples.
The principal purpose put proudly in place.

O Time! You need no more things to defile!
All I want to do is make that face smile.

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I’d have to be stupid, not to try anyway,
Even if it doesn’t quite fit.
Because I can’t think about you and not smile.

The Blind Date

I went on that blind date yesterday. It took her and I a few tried to find each other, as we didn’t actually know what the other looked like. We had our cell phones though, so we were able to do it. When I finally saw her, I thought to myself, “fuck, she’s WAY too pretty.”

“The Polish ones always are,” says my mother. “Even those who aren’t know how to make themselves look pretty.

She’s certainly deserving of a name, so I’m going to call her Polski Lalkę.

We both made a point of making the date extra casual. I think I did most of the talking though. Here’s what I gathered about her though – she’s a masters student of international business, and she has her doubts about it. She’s a Catholic, but she has her doubts about that too. She’s an only child and still lives with her parents. Both her parents are from Poland. So is she, but she grew up here, and has no accent. She likes to exercise and stalk people on facebook. Who doesn’t? So I told her we could stalk each other and see where things go from there.

I also told her I keep a blog, and even my theory that this kills my chance with every woman who reads it. I told her about Nurse Betty, and Scarlet the Spy. I’m praying now that I’m wrong though. I did not give Polski Lalkę this blog address. That’s where I’m stopping short. Yet she’s not the one who’s on my mind today.

She was gorgeous. Actually, she just added me on facebook. She’s stupidly gorgeous, and she’s easy to talk to too. So why am I thinking about someone else? I was thinking about her on my way to meet Polski Lalkę too.

I suppose if Polski Lalkę is actually interested in me, I should give her a chance. I would have to be stupid not to. I can’t help but want who I want, though. This other girl doesn’t even know I like her, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to find the courage to tell her. But invariably, I seem to find that courage, don’t I?