Having had the last laugh, he saw the humour in his ultimate death.
In living, others, he would never find out, just got to laugh a lot longer.
Roulette
We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
My turn. Hand slightly shaking, I count backwards. 10, 9, 8, 7..
Will I or won’t I? 5, 4, 3, 2… I will!
I pull the trigger! ‘click’.
We laugh. It is not my time to go.
Big boys, playing with boy toys.
I want to tell you that I love you,
but boys don’t say that to boys,
I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Jenny drives over to join us.
I watch, feeling jealous as you kiss her; how you look into her eyes; how you smile.
Watching you slightly stroking her breast, I know I shouldn’t,
but wanting to watch, and unable to peel away,
I can feel myself getting hard.
Playing Russian Roulette.
I am 32, way too old to be playing this game.
I have to wait for a suitable moment to eventually head to the toilet.
My sensitivity heightened being in same space as you,
I try to stifle my groan as I cum.
Not wanting to be a third wheel, I’m heading back home.
Music blaring, I’m singing to some camp classic.
As I pull into the driveway, I can see that you’ve left me a message.
You and Jenny have had argument and she’s gone. I go back to yours.
We talk about Jenny. How she’s a bitch, how all she does is complains, about how crap she is in everything she does, but how at least she gives good head. We talk and drink.
We drink, we talk, solving nothing, not even our own world problems.
We stumble up the stairs, laughing about all the stupid shit we just drank ourselves silly about.
I finally get you to your room, plopping you on the bed. I turn to walk out, but you pull me towards you, with me falling on top of you. We are face-to-face, as I try to pull away, you pull me back. ‘Man, I tell you, if I were gay, I’d be all over you’, and then you kiss me, on the mouth. You. Kiss. Me. On. My. Mouth. We kiss. We both stop, then stare at each other. I don’t know what to say. You smile, and repeat, ‘if I were gay, I’d be all over you’ and fall off into a drunken sleep.
We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
because we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
Falling asleep on the couch, I know that you told me love me;
‘but boys don’t say that to boys’, I tell myself, ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago’.
Love’s Silence
I tell you, ‘I love you.’
Your silence carries our ending to infinity
Sh…
Having freed himself of her lies some time ago,
her silence was the last word she spoke to him.
Thoughts
You are my first thought in the morning,
the last in the evening,
and the many thoughts in between.
My Eulogy
Take me to a vast and open field and with my last elegy being read, release my ashes as you set me free, free in death, to run with the wind. No, tears you will not cry – at least not tears of death; but cry for me tears of birth. Like a new born emancipated from the womb taking its first breath, I will be liberated to take breaths elsewhere.
Tell him. Tell him that I loved. Tell him that I loved, if not only him. Tell him I tried to find the words, I tried. But I soon found there wasn’t enough songs to sing, nor enough words to write and then, never enough time. Tell him, I became impatient for more time, and then impatient with the time I had.
I want to be buried under a moonlit sky, with only the whistle of the trees’ silence, with no words spoken as I spoke them all before. Write no words too, as those letters will never tell the stories that we’ve already told. Cry, you will not, at least not from my words; and least not from our words.
In her ear whisper. In her ear whisper that no matter what, I will stand at her side. Tell her, my mother dear, the whisper she hears will be mine. Tell her the whistling of the trees in the silence, with no words said, will be me. Tell her to take me to a vast open field, so my last elegy can be read, and to spread my ashes with the wind. Tell her there, to set me free.
AAB’s Lament
He knew no love song or poem would ever be written for him;
not even those written in his own words.
Dayless Love
I woke up this morning still in love with you.
How very frustrating.
The Insta Singer
I Googled myself today.
All that stuff of me singing came up. I listened to it, cringing with each sung note. I have that moment where I realise that I am a no singer, not at all. You know, I really didn’t want to sing, I did it for you. No, you didn’t know that – my question was rhetorical. I was so desperate to impress you and hadn’t much in my arsenal to use – being broke, unemployed, with very little talent. But I thought, at least you can sing (thought, being the key word). So, I spent the last of my money I had in a last-ditch effort to impress you; to grab your attention. Jazz. I saw somewhere that you like jazz, so I recorded these songs – jazz songs – and every other day, I placed them on Instagram. 11 songs over 22 days (more or less), and you didn’t like any of them – not one. And, to add further insult to injury, on 23rd day I post a picture of me cuddling a cat and lo and behold, I get a like. I get a like because I was with a fucking cat – a cat that wasn’t even mine I should add (I’m more a of a dog person). That was the day I gave up singing. It should have been the day that I gave you up, but that task has proved to be a lot more difficult.
Did you know writing cost you nothing – well, nearly nothing? Did you know that you can take as long as you want to let each letter turn into words, those words turn into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs? Do you know that each time I hit publish and share my creations with the world I feel I’ve accomplished something? Do you know the feeling I have knowing the words I turn into paragraphs are all mine? Every day for the past seven months, I have written – mostly about you. Yes, I know you didn’t know that. And, I’m happy to say that in the past seven months you have actually liked one of my postings – me cuddling a cat – a cat that wasn’t even mine I should add (I’m more a of a dog person) – it seems you are more of a cat person.
And, I still Google myself. I want to ensure my words are still there on the world-wide-web. That the words I turn into sentences for you, are still there. That if I die tomorrow my words, my sentences, and me and that bloody cat, will live long after me.
You are…
Let me be the person that tells you, every single morning,
that you are both beautiful and remarkable.