by dschapman

I’ve seen the cordials roll in with the wind and watched while the tastemaker made his wine. I sleep the morning off and shiver through the night. When women knock their tits against my front door and toss their pebbles against my window I turn over once under my covers and pretend to be asleep. When fancy boys and girls come around for fairytales or for the midsummer festival or for to eat candy and act indiscreetly, I slide the spring-bolt in place and disconnect my telephone. The attitude is ubiquitous. My collection of penknives, picture postcards, woodwinds, pulp, and regrets is peacefully compiling into quite the omnibus for my loved ones to pick apart and feign interest in when I leave. I am not chisel clean and humping barristas in some filthy self-centered burrough, nor am I a dog-eared showman in some heated loft with my cock hanging out and dripping on the carpet. There is only one prettyboy as pretty as myself and he sleeps in the sand when he’s near big Sur; but otherwise he sleeps soundly in the gutter, his hair black as bile. “Say good night to the bad man,” but night never comes – nor leaves – for such a prolific personality. We prettyboys are like kids who sleep in caskets. Ugly, nasty boys, boys with noxious thoughts and mad inclinations. Sensitive, delusional boys. We parade around playing our off-pitch pan flutes and throwing cherry bombs in the empty eye sockets of the blind. We kill and we savour and we lean to the left. Stay away from me; keep your hands by your side; take one more step and I reach for my revolver. We aren’t in grade school anymore; the dirt under our fingernails isn’t dirt.

Where have all the good men gone? You used to know quite a few. And where are they now? You still know the face, but there’s no man there to meet you at eye-level; surely, you can’t be the only one left – can you?