the winged giraffe winks twice (how i try to love myself)

i’m three dollars eighty drunk and blind
and a senator’s after the love of my lives

these underpants maintain a certain dignity
and yet
have not been changed in weeks.

and all i can ask myself is
when will i forget
and repeat

this.
poem.

nostalgia.
‘fear of the unknown’
my imagination is always worse
trapped in rooms. texting on cellphones.

your thighs. his saggy balls thin cock.
no one is inviting me to pillow talk.
career career career
slaps the arse of doubt
anarchy long forgot.
climax. she shouts.

or more i murmur in my musing
selfish pity past the point
drinking heavy for confusion.

tell yourself you’re losing
that you’re self abusing
that it’s all.
their.
fault.

she’s right. you’re morose.

that it’s wah wah bang bang
give a bloke a blow-
job.

or at least another self to love.

and all these words that rhyme and say.
nothing.
like.
laughing.
like.
sex.
and.

i've detached from the reflections of others.
been sleeping in til 2 to wrestle with monsters.
and got eyes like violence behind the silkscreen.

yet i still cry for india. on days of clarity held dear.
searching for clues in lucid dreams.
in fragments reflected back at me. lost childhood trajectory.
life is never elsewhere. behind their tv screens.

and so okay
i admit that i am afraid of sleeping.
waking.
dying.
loving.
but mostly moving on.

and my cock 12 inch deep won't make me feel.
but recites the memory
of walls. hands. faces.
touch and conversation.

and yeah this love of scars will never heal.
but between keystrokes and long strokes
there’s moments of realization

like here.

in this.
poem.