Jay Sizemore writes

Mother’s Day 2017

It’s Mother’s Day, and I am thinking about carbon monoxide,

I’m thinking about what’s left after the lush greenery of the Irish hills.

The gardenia we planted last year died in the late season frosts,

the cherry tree we planted was murdered by carelessness.

It seems I am destined to watch things wither,

to see my skin become a patchwork of inflammation and rust.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I know there is no cure.

I don’t know why I want to fuck every beautiful woman alive.

My brain has begun changing words to fit its own narrative,

a story of puzzle pieces forced into wrong places,

and a reality distorted and disarranged as abstract art.

The President is a lunatic as I am a porn addict

and a lazy and purposeless drinker capable of some messy arpeggios.

If you must know, my whole life I’ve felt this endless yearning,

as if my body is nothing but a fog machine

pumping out tendrils of emotional need to any possible recipient,

any possible reciprocation to manifest a version of self-worth

just as temporary as a lover’s high.

I am the rocket ship that refuses to land,

I am the butterscotch candy that sticks to your teeth,

I am the little boy you laughed at for being myopic and clumsy,

who grew into a man myopic and clumsy,

with no compass to navigate the treachery of social interaction.

I just want you to like me, and let me do what I want to do,

and do what I want you to do.

I just want to be anything other than this coward,

with nowhere to hide this rage and lust. 

 

 Me (Jenny Saville) -- Harry Vincent