Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

I have a tendency to blow off good advice.
Pants.
Bloody jeans clinging to life with safety pins and off-color stitches.

But they're a part of me.

I thought of how they came to be

And how I couldn't
quite
resist the urge to repeat.

Not the crash
but the freedom.

I miss my hipbones and junky-stink.
Years from now I'll miss the thinning streaks in my eyes, and the flirtation with nose studs and cigarettes.

The temptation to be a real man is there.
Spending more on shirts and cars than tuition and food.
The nowhere nothing of smarmy fuckhead smiles
that fail to impress in any shitkicker bar or horrid wild reality.

Do I lack appeal for knowing where money and meat comes from?
Or is it the fact that I cared only for you to stay out of arm's reach.

Maybe its the dust on my palms
the callouses on my big toes
the zippers hopscotching my body in errant curiosity.

I remember when you put your lips on that stiff, unfeeling flesh
as if to say I was still pretty.

I was numb.
To the sensation
and the gesture.

I couldn't love you then.







Not then, or that moment.

They feel for me when I say that.
I try to feel for you.

As hard as I can.
I know that's what you want.

You
me
they

all say so.

Then you say its fine.
That's just how I am.

But six months from now?
A dozen mechanical orgasms later?
A tiny stranger's quiet passing...