tough love
.
i linger like the oversized rings that dangle on your
fingers as you walk through the door. dripping,
shivering, i hand you a towel, listen to the rain beat
itself senseless across the tin roof. my right hand
tattooed with sweat & permanent marker rubs your
cheek. blushing, you turn to speak & it thunders.
..
wednesdays are for disappearing
like condensation from cold glasses,
where are we even going
i'll ask, you mumble something
about the coast so i sit with my eyes
crossed just to admire two
of you the whole way.
...
this time we stayed, found a place where you called me honey
bear, somewhere we could dream in ounces
then jar them up for winter, those days when grey knocks
at the window like it’s heaven’s fucking door. instead we coat
our bodies, sticky rays of light
& i'll learn you like a chore,
radical in routine hibernation where we sleep as often as we come.
climbing into bed, let my nervous system rest while i lay
back, suspended in sheets makeshift sky curls into starry night,
or starless day, we haven’t kept track of the time.
confectionate redundancy begins with you unzipping
dawn as the cracking of eggs, they stare
at me sunny side up in the frying pan, to blink now
would mean to miss a moment,
a sizzle, crackle, popping your knuckles
loudly in the usual order, my ears following the rhythm;
i can’t, he can, i think i'll let him.
you will never forget how to dance
a picture of you faces towards
me as i try to title this poem–
glancing at it back and forth
my molasses mind scrapes by,
lightning insists thunder
could protest at any moment.
your favourite headband
is now caution tape, a neon warning
to all that may cross you with
small talk or bold statements,
managing a misunderstanding
within one's own mind
must be what dementia is like.
mediating conflict of synaptic
proportion where you are
both victim
and the perpetrator
i majored in communication
but on bad days i can
hardly interpret my own mother;
she calls me my father’s name
and i don’t correct her,
unwilling to add confusion
to the timeline of an
unknown expiration date when
regression is never linear,
as the mind declines
familiar bits rust and
lights flicker until
the bulb is spent,
a distant shifty sound of
filaments will be all that is left;
i hear them when she
shakes her head no, no
that’s not what i meant
memento mori on the dance floor
with a line for jane from bukowski
here's a fun date idea:
let's play bingo
with the periodic table,
'lots left on my bucket list plus
have you tried mercury mixed
with a bit of scotch?
you'll be pulsating plutonium,
ringer silent, lips on vibrate
tiny fisheye cameras
in our technologies
watch bodies twine
into square knots,
breath circulating in tandem
hexed by musical drone, its bass
thrums my chest & i just
wanna didgeridoo you all night,
weather permitting, see
if you can flood the floor
the way i make it rain
we'll lull the storm inside
my apartment,
gnash & grind & dance against
probable electrocution.
inside this penthouse on stilts
it's grease lightning,
hydroponic
automatic
spit & sweat, too.
dog tongued, jaw agape with agape
i'm a lovestruck loon;
anyone who moves like that
could never die. insomnia
resents routine, so you sleep,
i'll scrub floors, walls, windows, ceilings
reset the viscosity back
sacrosanct, well-practiced
belief through monologue,
especially the idioms i've
muttered over, now time worn
don't put it down put it back
things i'm actively using
wind up lost between
unfinished thoughts.
i check on you once an hour,
confirmation bias
that tonight ends with
some form of company,
in this room the hours of love
still make shadows
until every black & blue
shoved from the sky
morning elbows through
to cast a spotlight
on the fantasia,
cheap memory
foam mattress
pressed with your shape
sleeping curled, foetal
fossilized memento mori.
for the suicidal man i don’t regret meeting in 2015
my rarity,
you mastered disappearance
quicker than a shadow
or the flicker of afterthought.
finally i think i'm able to write about you.
it took a workshop,
each time before
pebbles collected in my pockets
pulled me down
until I was a silver mess on the floor,
not antiqued
but burning like mercury
missing the caverns that rested
in the corners of your eyes,
damp and calm.
years ago you would exude
your sugary fruit and i would sin
all the way to the pit.
the days spent in bed were fever,
trauma bonds forged over
shared proclivities,
routine now piles on the nightstand.
I traced your outline
over and over, got up to change
caught you apologizing
to your not-quite-as-handsome reflection,
even the mirror was speechless
as you queued death
in the back of your jukebox head,
i cut holes in the sheets
to play your ghost
hoping you’d resent the idea
that lives are meant to be wasted.
still the day came
i shook like an uneven breath
hung out to dry and since i've become
so selfish, wanting to ask
how the sloppy kiss of death feels
when the tongue hoarding answers
were mine all along.
the hours
rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
-virginia woolf, mrs. dalloway
my head bobbles
at the top of my spine
like a plate spinning atop
a sharpened stick &
i want to crack my neck infinitely;
it’s 3 am, instead of sleep
i'm googling the psycho
psychiatrist that almost
killed me on the clock,
she’s straddling my mind
digging at the side of my torso,
aiming for the spleen.
the past, a cold empty pot of tea
cluttered with leaves so cabalistic
that any interpretation leads to
vacancy of consequence,
the powerlessness
within lacking accountability
will leave you spun
loose as a lightbulb left
to rest for directionless lengths
of time and space
when unaddressed.
move on they’ll say,
you need to keep going
progression measured
through momentum
so sway northerly
adhere to a primary star
listen for aiwass and
tend to mitosis within
the spiral of your snail body,
separation that follows
absence always goes astray
little neighbourhood cat
face to face with the hours
still knows how to get fed,
to keep itself alive.
sometimes the only thing
that moves here is the light,
it changes everything
like a subtle shifting of
crossed legs so that your feet
remain awake and vigil,
faithful as a fireman
i am ever prepared
to slide down poles
or up the familiar slippery slope,
my sled splintering each time
i hit bottom and barrel
into the snow face first.
JP Thorn is a queer artist raised in and returned to the south, which is not an ideal place to be a queer artist. After 10 years in the Twin Cities, they were called home mid-pandemic, yet continued their artistic endeavours, having engaged in poetry as well as traditional art forms, performance, mixed-media, and more for 15+ years. You can usually find him in a peaceful state of ADHD hyperfocus or ping-ponging between cat dad and hobbyist-verging-slightly-on-hoarder.
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