American Boy

Take the breath from my lungs as long as you use it wisely. Im hanging by a thread like the film real of a flimsy TV reel. Dim the lights down low and let its stream, Im like netflix in a dream, prime in a box.

Thanks for the information this morning. It was enlightening. Did you feel the American flag drip down you lips, did it feel good to let it burn me? I feel wiser for the knowing, more sad for the hopeful head that thought it twisted my stomach in knots. You win. Are you happier? Only a month we been apart - lyrics dance like a wedding song on mute. You're my new apocalypse, innately frustrated by the state of the art heart attack you drip into my veins. Needle-less to say Im at a loss of words, I can't type back as you hyperventilate about the distaste that lingers like something in your teeth on a night out. Toothpick digs and flossing only seems to scratch the surface as it lingers like a bee sting.

Hold the door, Im coming out and the sun is burning my Irish face. Freckles hide the sadness that awaits my Sunday slumber party for 1 and Im Jack's sleepless head. Nonchalantly flirting with the thought to sleep with a stranger and dance with danger going in without a thought. Thanks for the memories.

It may rain...

I watched you walk away today with the most cumbrous of hearts. The kitchen was clean just like the closets of every last piece that once called this 680 sq ft home. Desolation drenched in delusions of grandeur that we could make it through, that I could change the person that I have a become. It's not a monster dipped in malice but a malicious mind overpowering an off-beating heart longing for love.

Wish I could temper my emotions, find calm in being alone - a result that only I propagated. Looking across the wooden floorboards hopeful to abate the stalemate battle between me crying and walking the streets with lightness. Standing flightless, and feckless. "You did this mate, get off the sorrow bench and pull the rope from around your neck." The coarse knots pull at the skin that once held a man together, beautiful and strong. And now, you ask the twine to rip the life from everyone it knows. "Selfish fuck, don't look up to the sky asking how to recover." Don't tip the bottle back like all the times before. As the morning dew settles the whiskey hits your lungs with no calm, only igniting the hunt for the liquor, thicker than the clotted blood in your veins. Losing battle grounds created by lies like betrayed King Henry's Court driving France to burn.

Enter the chapter of another disaster if I continue on this path. Look back and laugh if I can surpass.

Crippling you and stealing days of breath is all that I can recall. Turning into what I always thought I would using a flaw as a cute, helpless hook to draw people in. Its not cute, its not fun, its hurtful and drawing Dorian Grey over and over again doesn't make the paint not crumble.

"It may rain, it may not...but if it does rain how much will you allow that to impact your life...thats anxiety, its a fear and if you let the fear win you will always fight against it and lose...moreover you will forget to live."

Look back at this and laugh...if not laugh smile because tomorrows not promised, only offered. 

Eye Contact

Its dinnertime and I am so acutely in touch with my senses. I can feel the pulse of her eye contact. Can see the flutter in the blink, the lubrication that coats her corneas. Her lashes touch and drag against each other until their inevitable pull, the top lash...the only part of the body that seems unrestricted from the burdens of gravity. Hold. Don't let go of this parasitic grip that trips up the beat of my aortic fixation.

Contact lenses dress the tension of the 40ft gap. Im counting crows because I think she's "looking at you man" but its my inner gut and lapse of egotism that forgets I'm the best. Why should her eyes turn anywhere else? After all I'm on the back of the ball staring into her brain. What does she want?

Synapses void of time lapses stretches through the cerebral universe where I'd like to live. Give me a year, a week, a day - give me a note within her Beethoven symphony so I can play the matching tone. Eye contact is not enough, I'm burning for a touch like doctors lust to get a little closer. I am rapacious. It is embarrassing and all consuming. Im a festering maggot feasting on her lack of focus.

All this breaks in a second of fate and I cant take the mistake of looking again. She picks up her Virginia Slim, presses it against her lips, and she gone like a ship in the night. An overture of silence takes over. I'm the lonely man on a one-night stand and that beauty wasn't built for me. But, I was meant to see vile denial of another being who will never again catch my eye. Im Dantes hidden away making friends with a man full of treasures at the bar. Jesus Christo, monte christ I can't count the time any longer. Just give me one more second of eye contact and I am sure I can cure the world of loveless sight.

"Bye," she says.

Closing Time for a Salesman

By the time 11am rolls around the following would have happened; Pre-workout drink with caffeine, glutamine, creatine, sugar. Cup of earl grey tea. 2 pills of vitamin b-12, orange, banana, grapes, another B12 before meeting starts. At this point the body is functioning on fuel. All fuel does to a car Is make it run, and at this juncture the body doesn’t start with an empty fuel chamber, the mind doesn’t react. It's a necessary routine, an arbitrary necessity. 

The sales cycle is like the morning routine. There is a need to jumpstart strong to avoid ambulance chasing at the end of the quarter. You start fully charged, ambitious for the early close, the larger booking, like the dose of amphetamine that makes your scalp itch like lice. When the money doesn’t come you search for blame and digression from fear only to choke on another presentation driving nonsense to the core. But we love it! The chase, the fight, the hunger..like the victory of a first fuck or a long drink at 7pm in your Eames chair.

And when a quota is met or lost you take it like a a shield, and wear it for better or worse. Since the only measure of a man or woman on the pitch is how they do in their last ballet, their most recent quarter, a tumbling dance for the overachiever. Numbers held over our head like a hanging kerosene lamp, but we’re the ones that fill it up. We keep it burning since without its glow there is no rush for the win, for when the wick disintegrates we know our time is done.

Pass me the big one, mate, pass me the jar. Let me fill it up with the pound notes and sterling that will make the people happy. Make the dress shoes sharper and the blazers more fitted, until we’re wearing worn clothes like the blind  beggar of Whitechapel. Stop the car, Im getting out – it’s a monkey factory in here and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Enter the death of a salesman, the poetic conquest gone wrong in a world of sharks and critics. Verbose metabolism violently fades with age, like the vacuous attempt at learning a new trait. Bitter to the core and unable to appease with uniformed non conformity; the younger beast emerges from the shadow to take the lead over the formerly dapper associate. In this little microcosm, I’m on top right now, but who is coming in next?