Between commercials and restless sleep, I worry about the closet romantic
who mocks karaoke—mediocre covers of his favourite myths—just to maintain
a cold demeanour that was supposed to shield him from getting hurt again,
because if one day he realises the cure is worse than the disease, I might lose
a convenient fallback topic that distracts from that innate indifference of mine.
Does being alive merely by habit still count as living?
I guess it all comes down to the definition of living.
Besides, even being alive is a menacing slippery slope
that can degenerate precipitously into name-calling
and ultimately a factional war of attrition and demise
of the couple you once were.
When I was a boy, a drawing of red ants
walking along a Möbius strip caught my eye.
I thought their lives must be pretty boring
(not that mine had ever come close to even a clumsily sketched tesseract),
but I never imagined I could envy them, and yet here I was,
faced with the alternative—relentless pestering:
Get out; find someone; live a little!
Hell truly is paved with good intentions.
With the streets still scarred by the night’s sobbing, New Year’s Day wakes up
cold—unusually warm for January, though—and dark, with an overcast sky
and a looming hangover, not quite ready for the fake yoga and a full breakfast,
let alone the sight of Kevin Kline making love to Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.
I had forgotten what it was like to lie close to someone—the warmth, the scent,
the thrill of the brush against each newfound curve, the sound of rapid breathing
and barely suppressed moans—but I hoped that life would catch up eventually,
maybe in a year or two, and yet another one has just passed without any change.
Actually, the last statement is not entirely accurate. After all, I’m a year older
and that much less attractive.
There’s no grandeur in the art
of fellatio without embracing the fact
that you’re gonna get hurt either way,
whether you swallow or spit
(which you probably wouldn’t think about
on New Year’s Eve, if ever),
if the recipient happens to be a theocon,
because he either accuses you of abortion
or cannibalism—bad jokes aside, let’s hope
the new year brings us a soixante-neuf
with more of that ‘Make love, not war’ vibe.
Between Harry’s pecan pie and Sally’s ham sandwich,
I had a square of dark chocolate, and then it came to me
that if he can hide a disappointment and she can fake an orgasm,
I can consider myself lucky—in the end, no one hated me;
they were just indifferent, and though not quite what I expected,
what fun would it be to always know in advance
that love was what you pretended it to be?
Being a poet pays nothing—that’s probably why I also write prudent stories
in TypeScript and Java—and I wrote my very first stanza out of love anyway,
but she just laughed at me—the girl, I mean, not love, as love has no feelings
and will leave you at the first wink of a passing globetrotter so you can learn
some legal jargon and that no one fancies a homebody in this brave new world
of dating algorithms. But I guess I could always become a magician—it worked
for Mrs. Münchgstettner—if it weren’t for my stage fright and the conviction
that nothing the world had to offer I couldn’t find in the free verse and ragtime
reclined on my sofa.
I’ve heard that lovers are like buses—you have to wait for a little while,
and another one comes along; though I can’t help but add: unless the line
is closed for good, while you, unaware of it, are stuck at the bus stop,
tapping your feet and nervously checking a watch, afraid that your ride
will pass you by the moment you’ve given up and started walking.
I learnt a new word: commiserations.
Ironically, it was used in response to the news
of someone’s engagement,
but frankly, having tried wedlock myself,
I understand the sentiment.
However you slice it, marriage has always been
and always will be a soul-crushing trap
that complements the cruelty
of birth.
hidden pilcrow 