do you hear my heart beating?

BYjonathanleder-5

Ipsicon

This line is for your need of an island and your modern execution of distance. This line is for the way you look in the morning (as brilliant as in the back of a crashed car at midnight). This line, that lacks pain killers, is for the injection of reverse repulsion I suffer at your invasion of my oxygen. This line is for the way your frame moves away from me (without making my purpose come true). This line is for the sweat and the ancient postponement of closure. Poetry is no substitute for survival. For a moment there, I was bombarded by a pretty girl and the clothes I swim through to care for her. I am thinking of a capricious girl and her pictures inside my copy of Hemingway's "Men without Women".
 Photo (c) Jonathan Leder 

Modern girls always get their way

Somegirl_502

+ The Strokes and Regina Spektor: Modern Girls and Old Fashioned Men

The last poem I’ll write for a girl (while I wait for a woman)

I pay homage to the queen of no subject (who won’t let me lay upon her chest like she does her favorite book)

Directly from my neurotic bed (which she has made her own) I lie here in the anguish of her extremely perfect geometry.

She gets confused, much too loud, and I dare report the she is as believable as a miracle. Even two ounces of regret can’t bring me to my knees.

The frustration of her dress is a painless disaster as long as I know I’m gathering her thoughts,  (they always drip slowly) her mistakes, and her innocence.

She keeps bringing me to the book. To her highlighted Lolita sections. She brings me to the mirror. She kisses the hallucination to feed the commitment.

I think of the timestamp to all this. Trying to capture my moments with the queen of no subject, is like trying to see in the dark.
1997


passion or an imitation of it

ByJoseM

Ipsicon



She situated me in the company of the extraordinary just for her amusement, and to take advantage of my congruent search of arms to collapse in.

She was sleeping under pianos, drinking next to cellos, dressing in pale colored underwear, playing with me like a new toy with the chew marks of her ownership.

I knew she longed for a dark room with two beds and an open window. I knew she deprived me of things so that I would learn her discipline.

Six storms after midnight and nine rooms down the hall, she was clumsy a girl stumbling into my pile of magazines. Not much later, her room was my castle. Death to her morals, death to her threads, death to her memories, death to her past, death to her medication, death to her will, death to her diary and the long accounts of her cruelty.

Three sighs into one night and the bed was too small.

Karma and alcohol made her aggressive. She demonstrated her talent, I showcased my weakness. I knew she would leave me crawling for talent. I memorized her eyes, the repetition and confessions.

I bowed for status, holding hands and confronting our barricade of grief. The one condition was not owning an ounce of mercy. We survived on passion or an imitation of it.

Was the sign "Handle with Care" on my chest making her think twice?

Ipsicon


 Jose M 

insomnia is my friend, lunacy my guide

By-brittanie-pendleton-1-2010

Ipsicon


Our arguing about art has always been sexy. You are even kind to the blithering idiocy of people who ignore books and Buddha. I always admired your List for Love Making: cellos, Chinese food and chocolate. It stinks of desire and deviancy. It was eye contact that did me in. Not the promise of feathers, five album long foreplay or the study of god's gluttony. I never complain, insomnia is my friend, lunacy my guide. I take long sighs and I pause often to soak in all the snogging we did inside the manipulation of your mischief. Your movie would be called "nudity", my play "obscurity". I'm writing down your Omni sexuality towards earth since I will never see again. I can only be distracted by pop culture and strange rumors of paradise. I can be completely floored by your screaming solipsism. Suburbia contains us, like we are victims of some underachieving voodoo. It can't be your warm skin that spells weirdness. I will come back to you. Women are not Toys and I meditate against nudity.

Photo by Brittanie Pendleton

18/the undocumented life of a man without a serial number [3]

By the girl who tamed the tiger444

Realities I chose to ignore: alone it is. I have no resolutions, it was a very difficult year. With the precision of a nuclear bomb I shall enjoy the night. Swans and Women are difficult. I knew every crease in her voice. I can hear her now saying "Is this fucking charming or a charming fuck ?" We had a war against dusk.

At night I randomly open the dictionary. It is on a desk by my window. I move the curtain so that there is some room for the morning’s sunlight to fall upon it. I wake up and look at the first word I see illuminated. Today it was Hope. I feel like I have access to the divine this way. Tonight might pass faster and I could dream of bikinis and bullets.

I woke up and the word 'Alone' was embedded in every strand of hair on me. I decided to live life like a movie, as Andy Warhol suggested. My mind and my body are still working on the budget.

Art as religion is the thesis I tried to live as a juvenile. I want to be caught in an epidemic of creativity. My body oozes text. It spells disconnection. I demand to break Anxiety. Nothing left but to stop and direct my life away from Love and panic.

by the girl who tamed the tiger

13/the undocumented life of a man without a serial number [2]

McKeanbookreader

I am against textual ambition. The secret themes of my devastation have led me here, in boredom, without memory, plotting to start again. All of my past is solidly behind me at last, yet I will always be a victim to a sexy dress. I am waiting for the perpetual playback of my failures to cease. Nothing frustrates me more than a woman who will not let her-self be adored. Like an undeveloped dream, it is time for me to dial up a groove. I broke my promise not to suffer, and now. I have to start all over to earn my solitude.

 Art: Dave McKean, Cages 

7/The undocumented life of a man without a serial number [1]

Title01

Ipsicon


Impudent Danger Girl came without an instruction book. There was no manual on how to keep things exciting with her. She expected me to be a damn psychic. Without Communication, there was no saving me. We were not inside intensity.

Impudent Danger Girl was the one to make me crawl out of my miserable world. It's the things I have yet to learn that made me a man in her eyes. For some reason I listened to her. She would say things like “At this time of the night Colors have no meaning. Let's go corrupt a painting!” I followed. If she manifested the slightest interest in the future, it meant that there was such a thing.  

Impudent Danger Girl's verdict: We were Symbiotic. The end was written on the wall in Ani Difranco lyrics. Her autopsy of us did not reveal each other's name tattooed outside our hearts like I predicted. She grew tired because I would not give up the ghost of this relationship. At a moment's notice I could be possessed and taken back to us making love to Massive Attack's "Angel". God Bless having been in love with an atheist.

Impudent Danger Girl owned my intimacy. I was endlessly annoyed when she left me. She forced me to go out and about, searching for a strange little girl. I do not know what it feels like not to want to sleep with someone I've already slept with. The road to those feelings interrupts my sequential talent. Long lasting fury is one hell of a feeling to erase.

Dangerslut