Steve Husted – warrior poet?

Writing
Not today
Not now
Not ever

Writing
Inverse
Adverbial
Systemic

Writing
Not here
Not there
Not not

Writing
Ephemeral
Wispy
Ethereal

Writing
Not me
Not me
Not ever

“You want a blowjob?” He said as, the engine purring in the dark, save for the soft glow of the street light.

“No.”

Energy. Adrenaline. Nerve, here I’m bored. Verve is his curse. Because. Because.

“Do you go to school around here?” The electric window groaned as it rolled down. Quickening the pace, I ducked into a nearby bookstore.

“You wanna ride?” Little boy, you look nice. I’d like to fuck you. Fuck you good. Fuck you like you should be fucked. Ack. Well, that’s what it looks like. That’s where I run. That’s where my pulse jumps and the panic amps my senses. That’s where it is. That’s where I was. Pupils wide. Darting glances. That’s what it looks like.

And I thought I was going to die that day. That car, that evil, that permeating stench of child fuck, that dark, dreary underworld that I refused. It was black. It was scarred. It was bloody. It was drawn and stained and the void, when it calls, you don’t call back. The beast was hidden in plain sight. I saw it. And, well, that’s what it looks like.

These are not my dreams. These are aches. These are whims. These are cast away in the still waters of a rut. Of reality. These dreams see me pushing and shoving. Showing. Being. These dreams of fucking and whimsy. These dreams of satin and stains. These dreams of denial. Dreams of denial. Dreams of denial. These dreams, they beg, they proffer, they sing, they detest me in a slighting sort of way. These dreams, they confide in my their darkest secrets, they publish their turmoil for the world the see. I am the world. But, oh, fuck, I am the world. Fucking away, gently, rocking, groaning, aching, tension.

Release.

These dreams, they haunt me.

Secrets lay silent, as he dreamt. Secrets lay dormant and he professed to be. And I found his visage to be alluring, to be fragile and soft and timid. And I faced it, in the heat, in the searing moment, and I fucked it then and there. I stuck my dick in it, is that what you want to hear? I put it there and rubbed it and came on it in my evil little fantasy. I punched it and beat it and pulled away, satisfied.

Satiated.

Darkness didn’t fill me that day, but secrets did.

Oh, but you know all about it, dirty whore. You know more about me than I do. Than I want to. You feel it and caress and lie to me. Sweetly. You abandon normality and natural law, you’re an anarchist, you draw deeply upon my breath and suck upon my cock and feel the drama unfolding within you. You whisper of secrets as you lie silent, dreaming. You profess to be. You’re an anarchist in a world of unholy order and the last thrust pushes you over the edge and you lose sight of it. You lie still now.

Heartbeats.

Savagery.

Secrets.

“Take it back!” I screamed in desperation. And she didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And I sighed and sulked and sauntered off. Alone. Behind sunglasses I cried for hours. I wept for what I had become. For what I wasn’t. For dreams that had died.

The largess was uncommon and left her bereft of emotion. It was large and purple and I felt like it was cotton choking me down. It was a kiss, a fate, a glimpse at what was to be, but it was anachronistic, therefore fatalistic.

But I cried nonetheless. I’m not ashamed to admit. I cried like a girl, like a fag, like whatever it is you associate with emasculation. A sissy. A queer. Yeah, I’m a queer, if you like. If YOU like it. You like it.

“Take it back!” I never did say. I never did breathe above a whisper. I mouthed it heavily behind a closed door and the darkness came into me. In fits and starts I came back to myself. In a waking nightmare I calmed and became one with a moment. In painful suffering I realized something profound, then lost it on youth immediately thereafter.

And it went on that way. Over and over again. “TAKE IT BACK.” Screams. Ovations. Nightmares. Secrets. Whispers. Demons. And the countenance haunts me.

I had a thought after my dad passed away that I feel like winter. Winter, scenes of cold, scenes of bitterness, scenes of what was, covered in anger and suffocating that which was sown; those thoughts permeated my very existence.

I was done so many times, but they were lies. All lies.

And then I feel like I’m just a fucking lie. All I was. So I start again. And it’s tough. I start where I was, I take 3 steps forward then fall back. Back. Back. Fall back. It’s all right. There’s no use in pretending. My eyes give me away.

Oh, but, oh, it’s done. And then winter comes. It comes like a mistress hell bent on fucking your waking reality. It comes like a damned demon draining you, sapping you. It comes on and it’s a bitch.

And then I …

And then I…

and then I whisper, quietly, to the cold winter air, that it has me.

I thought about you since you died

I thought about what it means

I thought about where I’m going

I thought about where I’ve been

Mostly I’ve thought about nothing

The vacuous void within

The sinewy passion has left me

I’m left without religion or sin

Then I thought about you again

I thought long and hard

I thought I was over

That which crushed me

I guess I need to think again

Sometimes I have thoughts. Ideas. I want to capture them but I’m not motivated enough to capture. It’s an idea it’s a dream it’s a belief in a mainline tap to the subconscious.

I had an idea that I indulged months ago that seems like eons ago while wearing the orange shirt and shaving my head I decided to leave a #2 mohawk and I like it. I thought that I should have continued the line down my face. I happened to really really fucking like that I idea but I chickened out and went more traditional and “safe” whatever that means.

Washing my hands, I spied a round of dark eye makeup and immediately thought that it would be better used to make that stripe. I carried the thought forward and envisioned the dark stripe, about 1.5 inches wide, down my face. And I really liked it. “Duplicity” came to mind, and then I thought it would be a good painting, a good way to delve into some thoughts some aberrations some singing in my head and thoughts about where my head is or isn’t where it’s on a page but also on another page where I’m me but I’m not where the world is black and white while at the same time nefariously nuanced… duplicitous… wherein I’m not a duplicity because I’m living in one. Interesting idea for a painting. Or a series of paintings.

I stumbled across this wonderful photo essay, or rather a book, perhaps, called “Days With My Father,” by Phillip Toledano. Go read it it. It takes a few minutes.

I’m going to talk about myself here. His mom died, so he was left to care for his dad, who was in his late 90′s and had no short-term memory. I found myself at once angry that he had so much time with his dad, envious that he was able to be with his dad on the day his dad died, surprised at my heart-felt emotion, and relieved that I didn’t break down and cry at the end of it.

My dad died just over a month ago. I have days that are good – days when I can look at pictures and smile. I have days where I don’t want to believe his death is real. When I refuse to believe it – or maybe refuse to acknowledge the impish beast that nags at me and won’t ever let me forget. Rightfully so. I have days when I just let myself cry. Today, I didn’t call or text or email my mom. I just needed a break from it. I’m beating myself up for being selfish but also relieved that I was (mostly) able to push thoughts of my dad aside, even for a bit.

I have to stop writing now. I’ve gone and made myself cry again. Damn it. Not even just one day?