The Zoo Series: Peacocks

Peacocks are apparently my favorite kind of man, or at least the kind of man I am most drawn to. I was looking back at previous posts and it is very obvious that I have been repeating history, I keep going after peacocks. You think by now I would have caught on or realized how dangerous and tragic they are; what's that saying about hitting your head with a hammer?
I'm not exactly sure what draws me to them, but I really can't control myself, they're just so sparkly and inviting to me. A guy classified as a peacock is lithe, exotic, fashionable, and artistic. They're usually skinny, like skin stretched and pulled taught over carved muscle skinny. They smoke. They stay quiet. They don't tell you what they really want. And they drink. A lot. All my peacocks were heavy drinkers, those peacocks love their sauce. They wear a lot of black, and their style is underground metro as opposed to Paris runway. Skinny jeans, skinny ties, skinny cigarettes, skinny shirts and fat boots. They're like artwork, because they're so beautiful and so sad looking all at the same time. The most important part of a peacock, is their ink. Peacocks have lots and lots of ink, that is their version of colorful plumage. The body of a peacock, the bird version, is a deep turquoise( which is pretty )but the real wonder is when they present and spread their tail feathers. The body of a peacock, the guy version, is the equivalent of the tail feathers. All the black clothes hide the colorful sketches and markings that race all over their white skin. If you're having a hard time imagining what I'm talking about I can provide you with visual examples, just Google any of these men: Josh Beech, A.J. English, Jared Leto, Adrian Brody, Tyson Ritter, and any guy in any Lana Del Ray music video. Another distinguishing feature of a peacock is their eye color, always so bright and brilliant with a touch or sadness. Crystal blue orbs with a fleck of depression. Or emerald green diamonds with a spark of sorrow. It's what gives them away, and what makes them unattainable. A peacock is a beautiful, alluring and delicate creature; but they want nothing to do with cages or companions. My Roman was a peacock, but he didn't want to be contained. New York was peacock, he also wanted to fly free. I've had and loved dozens of peacocks in my life, and it always ends painfully; so why do I keep chasing them?
They don't mean to be assholes, they're just fatally flawed, exquisitely handsome, feathered creatures. They're not mean on purpose, they just get caught up in the beauty they create, and then they end up breaking your heart and destroying your soul. New York was nothing but wonderful to me, and he was upfront about everything, I knew what I was getting into; but how the fuck do you resist a masterpiece? My Roman hurt me so deeply I am still bleeding on the inside, but it wasn't intentional, it was a side effect of his own pain. It's kind of like Icarus, when you fly too close to the sun you get burned. When I get too close to a peacock I get burned and they fly away. Peacocks are too perfect for their own good, they destroy everyone around them while they secretly try to destroy themselves. They're not bad boys; they're actually wonderful, but they don't know what to do with their wonder.

So, I keep hitting my head with a hammer so when I do stop it'll feel so fucking good. Maybe sometime soon I'll feel good again, and I can finally put down the hammer. If and when I do, it'll mean no more drunk kisses goodnight. No more special moments forgotten when the stars fade. No more dangerous evenings. No more second hand exhales. No more nicotine kisses. No more fall down Saturday nights. No more vodka bruises. No more Jack Daniels sex. No more puffed petals. No more broken feathers. No more peacocks. No more accidental tears.


"Go kiss the liqueur off his laugh" -Natalia Kills

-Right In The Bullseye

Sometimes you have those days where you don’t really want to move. The kind of day where the bed and the couch have some kind of magnetic force, and you ass is just one giant refrigerator magnet. Your brain keeps telling you that there is “the list”, that big scary transformer of a list that needs to get taken care of. You know the list is important, you know the list will not take care of itself, you know the list has control over you, but you also know that if you try to get off the couch the sky will turn orange and the air will turn into bug spray. So the better idea seems to be to just stay on the couch. It’s not like you aren’t aware of the list, because chances are the only thing you are thinking about the whole time the couch is holding you hostage is the list. You think of what you would have done first off of the list, how you would have gone about doing it, and the preferred outcomes. You consider what would have been the most efficient travel routes, you ponder what stores are closest to each other, and you meditate on how you would have phrased your questions and offered your opinions. The fact that you didn’t do anything almost seems irrelevant because you thought it all out, you practically did it all. You were so close to taking a significant chunk out of that terrible “list” that you almost feel in the mood to celebrate; but then you remember that close only counts in horseshoes and preemptive bombings. No matter how much good will or heart felt mentality you put into something, it’s never going to be good enough unless you hit the bullseye.

Sometimes I play darts. On days where the couch has taken be captive, it is often gracious enough to allow me a bathroom break and some free time. During my free time I play darts. I am actually pretty good at it, but not in the ways that actually matter. A good dart player is not concerned with hitting the large numbers or accumulating as many points as possible every time they throw, no, a good dart player is worried about accuracy and skill. I can put all three darts on the board every time I throw, but I have no direction when I throw. My darts hit any number they damn well please, and I end up happy because I hit the board. But hitting the board is not even the real point of the game, winning is the real point of the game; and sometimes to win you have to miss or scratch out. Sometimes when you are playing it is way too easy to only see the bullseye, but usually the bullseye isn’t even what you need to score.

Attraction is such a dart board of a thing. All the qualities that a person could find attractive or be attracted to are just laid out there, and then we stand and throw our darts at it in hopes to hit something good. A sliver of mesmerizing eye color, a piece of broad shoulders, a triangle of aspirations, we throw our darts while thinking the highest score will benefit us the most. I suppose hitting the bullseye would be getting the best, most opportune result to attraction, but sometimes that isn’t what you really need to score. Sometimes you need to build up with smaller numbers, sometimes you need to focus on precision and accuracy before you can start throwing for the bullseye. Sure fifty points is a nice large amount, but it can also be too much and make you lose or bust. Then where are you after you bust? Right back where you were before, but now you are even more disappointed. Sometimes life hits you in the bullseye because life isn’t polite. Sometimes the couch grabs you by the bullseye and doesn’t let you go. Sometimes you throw for the bullseye but hit something close to it, something better then the bullseye itself. When that happens, that’s when you get to look life in the bullseye and say “I win”.