Sylas Yarad
By: John Smith
Loverboy
Albert Camus wrote that Life is absurd.
That's what I'm thinking about when I look at her.
I feel the addict gene they told me I have,
somewhere between the tumor and smokey lungs
contorting
to match the mold she's carved out with her words.
She's filled me with them,
and she doesn't even know it.
Life is absurd, I think,
watching her fingertips make lines in the sand
of this background noise.
I see the space around her,
and I see what she takes up of it
and I am envious.
To be jealous of abstraction, is what it is to need her.
To know the vice that holds you,
and to continuously negate seeking a form of virtue
to combat it, is what it is to fall
into something like love.
I am well versed in the aching of it.
This is all familiar, but I don't mind in the least.
I agree that Life is absurd. And in absurdity
I find a small corner of sanity
that looks something like the crosswalk by my house,
as well as a reason to continue on living.
Albert Camus wrote that Life is absurd.
That's what I'm thinking about when I look at her.
I feel the addict gene they told me I have,
somewhere between the tumor and smokey lungs
contorting
to match the mold she's carved out with her words.
She's filled me with them,
and she doesn't even know it.
Life is absurd, I think,
watching her fingertips make lines in the sand
of this background noise.
I see the space around her,
and I see what she takes up of it
and I am envious.
To be jealous of abstraction, is what it is to need her.
To know the vice that holds you,
and to continuously negate seeking a form of virtue
to combat it, is what it is to fall
into something like love.
I am well versed in the aching of it.
This is all familiar, but I don't mind in the least.
I agree that Life is absurd. And in absurdity
I find a small corner of sanity
that looks something like the crosswalk by my house,
as well as a reason to continue on living.
Portrait of a Madman
Gut me like the fish in my field guides
pick your teeth with my ribs
Take me out of myself and leave me to someone else’s discretion--
Have you had enough? Can I cry some more to fill your cup? Does the salt
make the thirsting worse? Is that the point?
Choke on my tears and
be honest--
Wash the blood from the sheets while your friends play the fool
~
There are fields of rotting flesh right outside the door
my bones make my blood sore in the mornings and it’s
hard to be hard
My brother called me a man whore, maybe he was right.
She tasted like copper and my roommates made faces because
they could never give a woman head I
shrug and light a bowl
Some people aren’t one of the lucky ones. Are you?
Am I?
~
Dirty change in my pockets for energy drinks from the Sunoco
gym clothes that smell like cold brew
Everything is heavy my
joints break and swell like apples in a Roman orchard
~
It’s been 2 years since she saw me, but I saw her 2 weeks ago
I put on shorts today and saw that I filled out because I eat now;
despite my stomach being filled with rocks—gifts from ravens that visit
when I sleep with my mouth open they leave
Bites on my shins and placations in my irises so
when I look at a girl a certain way, I can get her to trust me.
Have the trust not to betray, just to feel affirmed in the knowledge of possession.
Needless to say the romantic is dead.
Your bones dance in my body and if any
Love exists, it isn’t on purpose. What kind of psychopath
would I have to be? To want that?
You’re not even really here.
~
Pills behind the mirror and shit on the sidewalk when I run.
Shins splint down the middle and linger in pain.
Swing the radius at her jaw
Shatter the mouth she kissed you with and pocket the teeth--
That’s love. Or that’s certainly something.
Gut me like the fish in my field guides
pick your teeth with my ribs
Take me out of myself and leave me to someone else’s discretion--
Have you had enough? Can I cry some more to fill your cup? Does the salt
make the thirsting worse? Is that the point?
Choke on my tears and
be honest--
Wash the blood from the sheets while your friends play the fool
~
There are fields of rotting flesh right outside the door
my bones make my blood sore in the mornings and it’s
hard to be hard
My brother called me a man whore, maybe he was right.
She tasted like copper and my roommates made faces because
they could never give a woman head I
shrug and light a bowl
Some people aren’t one of the lucky ones. Are you?
Am I?
~
Dirty change in my pockets for energy drinks from the Sunoco
gym clothes that smell like cold brew
Everything is heavy my
joints break and swell like apples in a Roman orchard
~
It’s been 2 years since she saw me, but I saw her 2 weeks ago
I put on shorts today and saw that I filled out because I eat now;
despite my stomach being filled with rocks—gifts from ravens that visit
when I sleep with my mouth open they leave
Bites on my shins and placations in my irises so
when I look at a girl a certain way, I can get her to trust me.
Have the trust not to betray, just to feel affirmed in the knowledge of possession.
Needless to say the romantic is dead.
Your bones dance in my body and if any
Love exists, it isn’t on purpose. What kind of psychopath
would I have to be? To want that?
You’re not even really here.
~
Pills behind the mirror and shit on the sidewalk when I run.
Shins splint down the middle and linger in pain.
Swing the radius at her jaw
Shatter the mouth she kissed you with and pocket the teeth--
That’s love. Or that’s certainly something.
Checking my Bag for Pocket Knives
hour(s) of sleep woven with lilting apprehension
a watercolor takes form in the birdsong outside my window
and the gray rhythm of the AC unit
I wake up and fold together my things
moving in synthetic alertness as I check off a packing list
and grit my teeth against the nostalgia that floods my mind
at the thought of returning to a place I occupied in body only for a soft
slightly discursive, ... 18 years
I wonder in the car
how to wash the smell of an airport out of a sweatshirt
that bears no sentimental value
hour(s) of sleep woven with lilting apprehension
a watercolor takes form in the birdsong outside my window
and the gray rhythm of the AC unit
I wake up and fold together my things
moving in synthetic alertness as I check off a packing list
and grit my teeth against the nostalgia that floods my mind
at the thought of returning to a place I occupied in body only for a soft
slightly discursive, ... 18 years
I wonder in the car
how to wash the smell of an airport out of a sweatshirt
that bears no sentimental value