A few words in a poem about Ennui and Decadence. From a woman who does not know where to live or how to do it well.
Everything is as simple as breathing.
Cities tug at your skin, cracks appear where you thought
sheen and silk would endure, be
the past and the future, an opposition of drives split
this impulsive body into fragments, a battlefield of religions, a philosophy of me.
Some cities awaken you with hard brown bodies, penetrate shivers all day,
a taste of tequila burns the numbness we each
inherit, smoke to open horizons of self inside you, a clearing of cobwebs private
where sugar lines and circles of laughter crisscross
shameless triangles of flesh and
poetry. A city that spanks you before bedtime, hurts you
on your knees, showering you with stories of murder, bathed in
vengeance and looming threats of
disease, telling you,
cackling, to live for this moment eternal, to breathe, to
take all clothes off and jump in the nudity of a dark dirty sea. Some cities smear their
name on your back, a welded tattoo of pleasure
and words you will always fear. Heat and cold interplay in equal measure till the
rational you needs to scream. Some cities are merciless,
a tattered rose hangs from their teeth, beckoning the romance
of an old, returning,
good-time fuck you love to keep.
Other cities let you sleep. Sand is warm under your toes, and there is silence,
knee deep, and rising. Everything is open, even your eyes.
Possibly, even your heart.
Your mind follows patterns of peace, till
the timid voice you killed coos inside you to say,
love, love, love
wake up early,
sleep early, stop drinking, stop smoking, make money,
make a car, make love, brush your teeth, eat veggies,
make more babies, check your balance, walk on the water,
stretch out your limbs to the sun,
breathe. Marry, have children, you’re aging and still swinging
from chandeliers of glitter,
hanging on to nothing yet sparkling just to tease.
Some cities have no history, no future,
and a present full of insurmountable seconds
of ease. Be secure, be safe,
look around you. Everything is clean. A machine of urban wheels in motion
spinning on an axis of dollars,
vulgar at times, tasteless at others, always obscene.
Still, your stomach is languid. A cradle for life stirs in your
chest, the correct words tumble out,
full of luster and gleam.
Some cities smile at you, in your sleep.
you will go stir crazy,
wanting both the abandonment and the homebound yearning,
wanting the colored smoke churning at
the center of your sobriety, wanting the liquid
seething at mediocrity,
wanting the peace to pen words on paper not aflame,
wanting to burn that word you just penned
in ennui and shame,
wanting nothing but an answer to this future question you think
You know you will drown in this clean quicksand.
You know you will drown in that dirty sea.
Nothing is as simple as breathing.