Aesexual

I once described a friend, who subsequently I had a crush on, as aesexual. It of course came back to bite me in the a*s later.

 

I.

Endocrine paint brush strokes

Caution, wet floor

(as I stand in the corner)

 

You critique my work

 

Accuse me of labeling

you like a Warhol rendition

of aversion

this concept created

in my mind

according to you

for what I do not want to hear,

but I have listened.

 

II.

Capturing momentary

and transient figures

that slip through broken

movements of unmixed color

I illustrate from closed doors of my mind,

sketched out and defined

by you, the modern Louis Leroy,

--that it’s all unfinished matters.

 

III.

False in formation

under developed

over opinionated

delusion, somehow

you believe this is how

I lead my life –

chasing paintings

and collecting grief

for what is not so perfect.

 

 

IV.

How can I ignore or be deaf

to what is already silence?

Just enough response,

to contemplate maybe

until I am weary and lonesome

enough to give up and in

to a whim that disappoints

all the same, there you smirk

counting in vain, name by name

my head sullenly nods in shame

as you consider me broken,

again.

 

V.

You read through me

in divided stanzas,

lingering lines, emotional

outcries and you replied

with awe, surprise

stating that I tell all

while you tell no one

people ask

you watch, observe

distant –

while I remain

an orphan in your doorway.

 

VI.

You sardonically point out

fundamental personality flaws

in which you admit you share,

Demonstrating I am not the one,

for you (and perhaps anyone)

my ideals too romantic,

my thoughts obsessive

bordering delusion in feeble attempts

to reach, seek and find my home.

 

VII.

You close and lock doors

for women who lie, cheat and steal;

while I wait distant outside

staring in, starving for attention.

 

VIII.

I traveled miles to escape

the constant elated rejection

of loving you, not for false hope

of alluring transformation

of a situation long since past –

 

I could not stare any longer

without tactile affection

 

I could not listen anymore

to the absence of emotion

 

How can such volatile perception

be false?

 

IX.

Kinsey reports

utilize the description

that you are oppressed

by a consensus that you

are non existent –

 

while I beg to differ

 

I have to believe that

if

you could not desire me,

nor did I see you covet another –

 

surely, of course

you were above such affairs

 

X.

In the last of my contemplation,

I find myself weak and angered

with the same recurring frustration

 just enough rope for a noose of maybe

hanging in and hanging on

praying, you’ll kick the chair

from under me.

 

 

Author's Note

please let me know if this is too difficult to comprehend, often we poets are too far in our own skulls to make sense to others. any advice is welcome.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

the poet's curse, to try to make sense of these glass houses we call our hearts...oh, here's a good hefty stone...