The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

online poetry be like

"Excuse me?" I ask in the politest voice I can expel for someone who barely leaves the house and never requires a voice quite like this one. My hands skim the ledge of the cherry polished table to occupy myself while the inattentive boy behind the counter is helplessly immersed in a book about homosexuality in Greek mythology, and from what I can decipher, he won't be deserting that compelling activity anytime soon.

If only I possessed the tenacity to read something as controversial as that, because if I were to do that, then lord knows some fading bigot would approach me and say I'm going to hell for simply imbibing someone else's words that were printed exclusively for those who elect to read it, not for old men who think gay sex is somehow different from the new anal trend of heterosexuals. However, I'm far from that tenacity, so I can only observe in awe as this man gives no shits about crusty grandpas who will oppose him in a place where he's allowed to read whatever the hell he desires, and if that's homosexuality in ancient Greece, then I'm not here to stop him.

He looks so peaceful in the captivity of his book, even if it's about such a thrilling topic and even if he's ignoring me while reveling in this state, no matter how alluring it is, and I find myself staring at him, at the berry of his slickened lips, at his irises the hue of water dotted with sea creatures and salt and the power to disrupt the mightiest of vessels upon its daring waves, at his hair as blonde as a goddess from the book poised in such a way that it showcases his tumbling river of golden locks, and I swear I've witnessed candid pulchritude in its home of fresh parchment and cracked spines from the torment this elegance must endure, this evident writer must endure.

Disastrously, every writer was born from piercing screams and aching hours, all because we were loved unconditionally. Now we want to die, now the world hates us, and now we weep in sorrow because not even that love has been preserved. We are alone, and ordinary people crave extraordinary despair, so we figure that we can profit off of our own misery like a metaphysical parasite, and that's why I'm at the library with someone who won't even acknowledge me.

"Excuse me, sir? I was wondering if you could help me find a book."

How could I be so foolish? I've only been out in public for a few minutes, and I've already screwed things up. Of course I'm looking for a book! This is a goddamn library! What else would I be looking for? A loving, healthy relationship? Not likely, chiefly with the diminutive state of my social life. And why did I have to call him sir? He may be older than me, but he could just as easily be younger than me, too. I'm not the kind of person to wish for the olden days where everyone is a sir or a madame or a capitalist.

I wish I could charr my mouth after that stupid comment, but alas, the closest I've come to doing that is accidentally sipping my coffee before waiting a few minutes for it to send away its steam puffing from its raging lungs with the sole intention of killing me before I kill myself. Maybe my comment isn't so bad after all, but how am I supposed to know that? The only comments I'm accustomed to are the ones under my blog articles. But perhaps my speculation is correct, because the boy doesn't mind a bit, as he's so tied up with his homoerotic mythology book that he can't bear to acknowledge me.

As if cued by my acerbic thoughts, this is when the employee glances up from his novel, of all unfortunate timings, his vision unfolding towards me like a seductress wading in a lucrative share of playing cards with which to hammer me into their venomous clutch. It appears that he did hear me -- and from someone with such an air of calmness and attentiveness, I expect nothing less -- as he says, "Tell me your name first." He speaks slowly and surely, confident in his abilities and in the notion that he'll be able to ensnare me with the ribbons of his delicate voice tying themselves around my ears.

I have no idea why he needs to know my name, but intimacy is a dream for an isolated writer to develop a sense of what the world is actually like, beyond the ruddy fixtures of a New Jersey basement undisturbed by those who indirectly maintain it, and the worker has already intrigued me, so there's no use in letting go of him, or else I'll be pondering his beauty for at least a week afterwards.