Poetry Time

Okay, so, I haven't written poety in years, and then a few friends coherced me into trying my hand again. The basis for the following piece is a conversation between myself and my friend Max. He told me a story about an ex of his who started as a fuck buddy and then became a girlfriend. Not long after the official title had been added, however, they found that what they had built their relationship on (aka really great sex) was nothing more than a sand foundation that was slowly crumbling. Things didn't work out, and Max asked the question "what is left when really great sex isn't enough, or when that physicality is what you've built everything on?" I was assigned the task of writing out those feelings, so this is what you get.

After Sex

I think,
I do not know for sure,
but I think it possible
that stark and sterile are the
new thing.

Before, we grabbed the hem of the sky,
Purple-blue and pink horizons touched together,
we touched, flashing neon arrows in our minds
splashed bright spots to our backdrop,
I dropped, and gasped, and smiled, and lived.

Over and again,
cliff jumping, sky-diving,
belay me up beside you,
virtual rungs of sexual existence going up and up and up,
but then…what happens when we belay to the top?

The surroundings are an open eye, up there,
staring us down in unblinking determination,
stripping away our understanding
of the mural world around us,
a panoramic view that we no longer know.

An elephant is there with us
named namely for its size
its prowess of grey skin
shaped around the insecurities
of our seemingly emotional lack.

I never imagined that
once you’ve fucked your way to the top,
the elephant will be there to join you,
intent on staying until you find a different circus
for its existence.

Sex, it consumed us,
point and check for the rewards
that had illuminated our meaning,
a hallelujah chorus striking symbols
that have now turned to muted silence.

The elephant has replaced
that purple-blue haze,
neon signs glow dimly with sparks spitting
out the remnants of what we’d built
our relationship on.

Stark is the contrast
between now and then,
Sterile is the taste, and the smell,
and the emotion, the six senses shutting out
the used-to-bes and the what ifs of “us.”

If we stare that elephant down
will it disappear?
Or will we?
Will it end?
Will we will it to end?

A circus comes through and we must decide,
We bring the elephant and join!
No…we leave the elephant and join!
No…I’ll go and you’ll stay with him,
Perhaps we’ll have weekend visits.

…perhaps not.