Once Upon a Darkness

by david tyson moore

Poetry? I hate poetry.
I hate the open mic
which is really just verbal masturbation
The audience applauds
as the semen drips off their face
because they know soon it will be there turn
to take the stage
and jerk off onto the crowd

I hate the slam poet
which is really just a verbal assault
The judges score them
on their enthusiasm to rhythmically hate
because they want to be sensetive to the plights
of these madmen
that are pointing the finger at them

I hate the diary poet
which is really just verbal diahrea
The writer studies your reading
as the half caf mocha latte tumbles their bowels
because it is easier than talking to you
to hand you a journal
and expect you to pour over their scrawled emotions

I hate the blog poet
which is really just a verbal excuse
The continuity for a story is lost
as the second long visits pile onto the heap
because not even your family wants to read
about this crap
that you threw together one afternoon

Poetry? I hate poetry.
Here's some poetry.
I found it on my smart phone
sandwiched between a grocery list and a text message
this is mine

my ejaculate
my shame
my crap
my sorry justifications

I hope you enjoy it!

I had an entire relationship in a dream
From the moment we met

to the end

Her roommate laid in my bed
They started school in the fall
We drank wine

They had to go with nowhere to go
We walked the streets at night in the rain
And watched the sun rise

When they returned in the fall they no longer lived together
The roommate found a summer boyfriend
She called me

We drank wine
We watched the sun rise

The radio psychically eavesdropped on our lovemaking
A candy raver at a party in my house
A relapse of glowing circle tracers
A large pitcher of orange juice
Her grandfather's will concerning vampires

I jumped off a bridge and floated down
I walked the streets in the rain

Until we broke up

She cut her phone number
into a triangle from scribbled orange trees
on the back of a postcard

I wrote mine down on the back of a faerie
sending it into the wind
as the sun rose at night in the rain

Being no master, I passed out in a master's bedroom.
a drinking contest with myself
- and lost.

You should have seen the other guy.

This is when
This is how
she arrives.

I like tiny women.
I like to make them fat.

I like how you inform me that my chin is poking into your ribs without either making a big exasperated production or just avoiding the telling completely and dealing with the discomfort.

I like that you make me as comfortably nervous as I do you.

I like the silly but fitting analogies we make instead of trying to express ourselves with vague nonspecific words that we hardly pretend to know the meanings of. Looking at things from the side is so much easier for me.

I like that you fight me when I give you shit.

What I do not like is not knowing what I do not like about you yet.

I will.

There is a sadness in him. He smiles and laughs until their backs are turned. Then, sulks to a corner, absorbed in his own dreary thoughts. His world is a quandary, a conundrum. He wants to be around people, yet he withdraws from them at any stolen moment. She buys him a beer and they chat for a time. She keeps him occupied. She occupies his time. She occupies his space.

I want to see something break, something that would really shatter. I looked around the room at the technology accumulated on shelves, at the windows, the full length mirror, the telephone. Instead of seeing these objects I saw their dollar signs to replace them in contrast with the electronic digits of a dwindled bank account. The higher the price, the more appetizing the immediate results are of destroying it. Unfortunately, the consequence of the rampage rose exponentially with each imaginary bill. I need something small, fairly cheap, easily replaceable, and insignificant . . .

. . . like a heart.

In New England I would sit in a cemetery to process my thoughts. They were cold. It was cold there. They are cold now.

The phonebook burned better than the newspaper.

Better is subjective. In this sense it does not mean quicker to catch or hotter or a higher flame. The subjective viewer thought more of the aesthetics and tenderness needed to maintain that flame. It occupied him with satisfactory results, which is what was needed at that time.

The newspaper went up with ease, distorting the face of a real estate agent and one of the more luxurious, yet reasonably priced homes on the market. The phonebook, however, took columns and lines of numbers and names into its incendiary world.

Thousands of lives, names and numbers, home addresses and businesses, an entire city went alight without any of the world noticing except him and her.

The pages folded over like a fiery bird in mid-glide, putting one flame into remission, while another took its place. The corners curled. The edges crisped. The residential and business sections mingled in a red, yellow, and blue delight with a touch of emerald occasionally making a cameo.

There would be no fire engines, no sirens, no ambulance, no hospitals. There would be no victims except for the two.

Did you know?
Why didn't you tell me?
prepare me?
I can't talk to you
I want to yell at you
Whose idea was it?
You? Them?
Did you even try to fight for me?
In the final scenes
As the cast and crew rolled
I have been erased
Left on the editting room floor
Just as I learned to accept
A smaller amount of credit
Even just a thank you
You gave me none
How can I trust you?
We shared more than a moment
And I have to wonder
If it was only
a moment shared with myself

Editors always want shots of people walking out of and into other scenes, which directors are usually happy to make for them.

Robbed
Unappreciated
Hurt
Defenseless
Disrespected
Bamboozled
Betrayed
Used
Spent
Discarded
Raped
Drained
Angry
Sad
Stupid
Dumb
Wounded
Jaded
Nauseous
Unworthy
Insecure
Fallen
Pushed
Screaming
Crying
Stoic
Dishonored
Untrusting
Lost
Alone
Cut
Stabbed
Left
Violated
Knotted
Small
Petty
Slighted
Insignificant

Loved.

something broken. something blue. something shattered. something new.

please.

something new.