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

This City is a Zoo

So, once again I am single in the city; how did this happen? Check previous post. Now that my sentence in suburbia has come to an end, I am once again navigating the metropolitan wildlife, just trying to stay alive. As daunting and surprising as all this has been for me, I have found benefits of being single in the city. So! Much! People! Watching! I think I've discussed my primal love of people watching before, so you know how seriously I take it. It's like a sport for me. Chicago is a wonderful place to observe the animal known as 'human'. My plan for the month of July is to break down and classify the four types of male humans, explaining in depth what traits and personalities and physical characteristics they have. The four types are as follows: Peacocks, Lions, Gorillas and Birds of Prey. Any man can be placed in either of these categories. You might not believe me now, but by the end of July you'll totally get it. I promise.

My Roman Was Defeated

My Roman was a warrior of feral tactics and vicious attitude. He was the one to rule them all. He tamed me, loved me and stripped me of what I knew. His ambition was boundless, he knew of no limits. He and I

ruled over an empire of our own design. No outside enemy could have defeated us, which is why it is so troubling to know we broke ourselves. Our insides made us weak. I clung to him while the fortress burned down around us. He sat and drank while the flames devoured our love. Our Roman Empire crumbled because of doubt and drink. My Roman was defeated by his own cup and my insecurities. The enemy on the inside greatly outweighs the enemy on the outside.

Couples Table Part Deux

We can all enter as one.
Legs criss-crossed over heels, with boots caught on bangles.
A several headed, multi-armed monster looking for fun.
When the music initiates the pairings, I'm the note that dangles.

It's not that hard to dance alone on the floor.
To have to serve and slide with just your own hips.
But remember to always have eyes on the exit door.
If you get overwhelmed by memories of opportunities missed.

They can all sit down as one.
Hands held over one another, with laughter bursting about.
You seat your nicotine scented self, exhaling for fun.
Silent prayers that the laughter, before the vodka, runs out.

It's not easy to sit at the couples table and be single.
But you do it, to be nice, and polite.
It's not easy to pin on a smile, laugh, and try to mingle.
But you do it, so you don't ruin the night.

They all nod their head and say you're next.
So you nod too, as they get up to dance.
They twirl about the room in all their wonder.
And it makes you realize, you've been acting like Blanche.

It’s not my fault that everyone I wanted to take me home is gone.
So I have the crown and title of being unstable.
I'm sorry, but not I'm going to drink until dawn.
Because sometimes it's hard, sitting at this couples table.


*** *** ***

"I'm single because I was born that way." -Mae West

I can't help but wonder, if I hadn't told so, so many men to "come up and see me sometime", would I be single now? The Blanche Deveareux regimen can wear you out some nights. Other nights, it's the greatest addiction I have. This way you can sleep spread eagle, with the bed all to yourself; and, at other times, you can sleep spread eagle on top of someone else. But still, what's it like to sit at the couples table and be there rightfully? I wonder.

Slice Life

I use to have so much going for me. And now I wake up and try to figure out how much longer I can stay in bed without having to skip brushing my teeth on the way out the door. I think I peaked when I was 20. I've been cut down. Now it's a slow decline into routines and monotonous errand running. When I first came back to Illinois I thought I would lay in the corner, lick my wounds, and then come back fighting. With new inspiration, new goals, new talents and a book deal. But in reality, my life is so common. So pedestrian. The one year anniversary of the attack quickly approaches, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I'm past the point of being 'o so thankful' for being spared of any bodily harm, these days I keep playing out scenarios of what would of happened had I just grabbed a knife and gone out there. The me of today would have started slicing and fighting. But, obviously, the me of then didn't do anything but sit on my bed and cower. Maybe that's why I'm so angry and muted these days. My frustrations may have turned inward, on myself. I didn't really want to fight for my life? Not my actual blood-flowing-through-veins life, but the built-this-from-the-ground-up life. If you don't have a life worth fighting for, are you living? I think that's from a James Bond movie. Or SuckerPunch. Or maybe it's a line from Alias. Either way. I chose not to fight for my life, and now, while living the results of said decision, I don't have much of a life at all. How do I fix this? Where do I pick up a gallon of passion, a dozen inspirations and a box of future? What aisle is that on? Doesn't Meijer sell everything? Maybe I'm past grocery aisles and Quik'E'Marts, maybe I need a trip to Oz. I would like my turn to stand in front of the great wizard, even knowing it's all a fake. At least it would be an adventure, something a little more exciting then my weekly charade. I'd choose fending off flying monkeys instead of avoiding errands.



"Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle." -James Russell Lowell

The Right Ghost(s)

It was seven years ago yesterday, that I lost the privilege to wear white. And I still see him everyday in my head. No bother though, I see a lot of ghosts in my head. My brain is the ultimate haunted mansion. I'll admit, lately I have been walking amongst the dead too much; I've been relying on all my dead memories to keep my alive. I sincerely doubt that's a good thing. Don't they lock you up for that? Listen to the wrong ghosts and they fit you for a straight jacket, listen to the Holy Ghost and they fit you as sane. Either way, we're all just listening to disembodied voices, spirits that float through our brain and sail through our ears. One could argue that we're all just, plain crazy; no matter the the origin of our ghost(s). If that is the case, and I do get my straight jacket, at least I'll get to wear white again. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks Then it walks, then it walks with my legs To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet" -Florence + The Machine

Smoke Flowers

You set fire to me,
so that I can bloom and grow.
You nourish me with your exhales,
and face me toward your red glow.

When you look away I wither,
I mold and lose my charm.
Light up your violet stem,
your thorn does me no harm

Your ivy eyes contained me,
so now you burn across my skin.
The embers hanging from your lips
give truth to the fire within.

Your smoke rings glide across my body,
puffed petals discharged to caress my face.
Our loving flower begins to perish,
not keeping up with this lavender race.

Nutrients you no longer offer
makes for a frozen, nicotine season.
My smile is turned just like the soil
because you wilted with green reason.


*** *** ***

I don't believe it to be fatalistic, because it is just natural truth. My dear friend Gwen summarizes it nicely with: "born to blossom, bloom to perish". We spread ourselves out for all our glory, only to begin to shrink.