bugs coupling.
( a man is only a pretty thing / when he doesn't have to breathe ) a poem i wrote at the beginning of the summer. hopeful, to say the least.
recently i’ve debated my ideas when it comes to romance. am i an autodidact when it comes to love and in numerous attempts- try to be a visionary and love differently than anyone has ever been loved? am i just an immoral freak who needs to one-up the past? or do i just love to love?
which brought me to the inevitability of HISTORY.
someone i have dated has probably been with someone else- whether for 2 years or 2 months, that was their experience. their ways of existing together.
when it comes to me, i don't love with the idea of one-upping a previous partner. i love with the idea of just that, loving. people are so familiar with one form of love, from said ex-partner, they cannot find it within themselves to familiarize with new ecosystems of love. their functions, conditions, compromises, safeties, and dangers. to an extent- i get it. in the words of karlie flood:
“familiar hell over unfamiliar heaven”
that would sound like i'm implicating that their past love was hell? no. but they broke up for a reason. that’s when hell starts to become familiar, because in my experience, the men i have dated gave themselves no time to be alone. they dredged themselves in whatever they could find to replicate the rush they get with a past partner. i was at that point last year. i didn't care who made me cum, i just wanted to cum like i did with my ex. no one did that. no one could do that because i shouldn't have been seeking that structure. i left it for a reason.
i broke up with my ex for a reason. that's to grow, gain empirical knowledge, and be more careful next time whilst also having gratitude without fear.
a boy i dated is going through something familiar. what i recognized was patterns of comparison that lacked any furthering of our actual affection. i wouldn’t hold the weight brooks did. he would not hold the weight james did. but did we get together to find our exes in each other? no. we were bugs coupling for the sake of rebirth. no comparisons, just compassion.
he wasn't at that point yet. i didn't need to compare him to anyone because i don’t really compare any of my friends or romances to anyone. that’s not why i am allured to them. newness is a gift. i know what i want but i’m also open to expansion, i’ve learned from what i’ve needed from exes. the bad signs. but when there are none, i just go along for the ride. i enjoy being present for people who are present for me.
obviously, that didn't last.
so, more empirical knowledge (some bitterness, but i’ll save that for the books).
but here is a little romance poem i wrote about that beginning with the most recent boy.
bugs coupling.
logan robinson.
come lie on the bed of roses
he will find that the lygus
who nuzzled its cotton tail
that's northward of spells binding
hasn't deceived him
that's why its coat is buoyantly
trekking the catskills near the outlier inn
that a man is only a pretty thing
when he doesn't have to breathe
the heavy laugh like propulsion
is already doing the work for him
perfectly corruptible sprays
of trituration find solitude when
they're not making him cough
warbled dry of springs
his questions rouse the leaves
"just when does the lull become feral?
just how do us bugs
stay alive at certain times?"
and leaves small bouts of saliva
in my neck crease
i said "you just have to trust
that the times you ensnare the beast
and the foundation upon which you land
will couple like two appendages
ready for molting in a graphic shed"
i wanted him to ensue listening
to the rustling eyelashes of theurgy
how the darkness of their blink
converses in diodes of alchemy
to convince the divinity leading, mourning
if they'd refrain our parting to let
bugs compile moments
bugs shone macro through the lens
of an inordinate and grand inhabitation
i wanted him to be an arbitrator
about his varying risograph books
that dwell in the cellar underneath
the twin size bedding
made the aperture enough
to bedizen walls with his photo prints
from every unseen angle
he's a shimmering little antidote
seeping into every hazardous corner
he's sobbed in beautiful know-how
i know now, i've known how
that i want him to trace my arm
like it is the gentlest of cymes
and the cluster of my fingers at the end
bloom one-by-one
then his are enwrapped in them
and leads him to the ripest of beds
with the pace of a leaf-footed angel
i will cognize for his blossom
and float no more than him
as he gets ready to dine
letting out a sigh as i witness him
find the laxity, his pupils expand so wide
they could homogenize into the irises
his irises as green as our shroud
and his legs are small and stampeding
the light wants to keep him warm
i want to keep him warm
i won’t buzz him down.