Abyss Blinked

by Greg Meyer

PARTATE

  You loom in my mind,

  A celestial giant,

  And I am only an ant.

  Your every breath reverberates

  Within my chest.

  And I wonder-

  Would you even notice if I kissed you?

  I am drunk in your presence,

  My inhibitions washed away by your smile.

  Still I won't say the words.

  I know what we are.

  I'll never say the words.

  The gin blossoms on your cheeks,

  The vodka lacquer on my teeth--

  We're two drunk friends.

  That's all we'll ever be.

  I am content with that.

  ANTAGONISTIC

  Holy wildflower of my heart,

  The blossom of my desire

  Is nourished by the warmth

  Of your disdain.

  Your hair is a moonless night,

  And I walk the paths of love

  Without light or guidance.

  Your eyes glint like emerald,

  And are no softer in their gaze.

  Your heart is a viper's heart,

  And I am but a rabbit.

  Yet for all that, I would walk into your coils

  With a song on my lips

  And joy in my soul.

  Draw back your nettles,

  Holy wildflower of my heart.

  LIQUID FORTITUDE

  I drink a six-pack of courage.

  Even then, I can't ask you out.

  LATE AUGUST

  Your eyes are tracer-round fireflies,

  Your motion is a circling vulture's soaring grace,

  Your scent is mown grass and lilacs,

  Your hair is a blooming thistle patch,

  Your laugh is a midnight coyote's wail,

  Your smile is the evening sun,

  Your love is the slow summer's end.

  THE GREATEST PICTURE IN THE WORLD

  I drew you a picture.

  If you could see it,

  You'd love me instantly.

  But you can't see it.

  Because I didn't include it

  In this book.

  Also I can't draw.

  Love me anyway?

  THE THESIS OF MY LIFE

  I'm gonna live hard, die young, and be remembered.

  By which I mean,

  Eat junk food, die bitter, and be forgotten.

  FUN TO JUMP INTO, THOUGH

  I'm an autumn leaf,

  Rootless,

  Lost in a pile of my peers.

  ALSO I TASTE KIND OF AWFUL

  I feel like a dandelion,

  All my constituent parts scattered.

  The only part of me remaining

  Is my bare stem.

  DRAWN BY THE AIRSTREAM

  I don't say goodby.

  I only drift away

  Like a lost balloon.

  So my friendships end.

  FOR SARAMAGO

  Occasionally, I close my eyes

  And wonder if I'll go blind

  Someday, incurably so,

  And if I do, will I lose my mind?

  BUCKET LIST

  What would you do if you had one day left to live?

  Me, I'd probably sleep.

  MEGA-BLOX

  Knock-off Lego:

  That's how my life feels sometimes.

  None of the pieces fit together quite right.

  IF I GOT A TATTOO

  It would be a single

  Dot the size of a

  .

  To remind me

  Of my insignificance.

  I'LL SHARE WITH THE COSMONAUTS

  When I die,

  Burn my books

  So my soul

  Can read their ghosts.

  Scatter my ashes in space

  So no earthly ghost can haunt me.

  Someday particles of my

  Spirit will drift to rest,

  Sprinkling a planet no life will ever reach.

  TINDERBOX

  Living with my parents

  Is like living

  With a pyromaniac,

  A box of matches,

  And a gallon of gasoline.

  No matter what, someone gets burned.

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  I commend my legacy to my enemies,

  My possessions to the highest bidder,

  And my soul to whoever can find it.

  For it is very small.

  BFFs

  I'll never be alone again,

  I've found myself a friend

  Named Remington.

  GUIDE TO BEING A HIPSTER LIKE ME

  Bulmers is the best cider in the world.

  I say this because you can only get it in Ireland,

  Drastically reducing the odds

  You can disagree with me.

  Hipster smarter, not harder.

  DOWN THE HIGHWAY, NOT ACROSS THE STREET

  I'll dig my own grave

  And lay inside for a rest.

  Suicide is painless,

  I know, because I opened

  My wrists with a butter knife

  And watched rivulets of wine-dark

  Blood stain my skin,

  Tincturing the bathwater.

  RESPONDING TO EMILY D.

  I am

  So very

  Small

  I am less than

  Nobody.

  SECRET INGREDIENT

  My father and I talked little

  When I was young.

  Generally he'd walk in

  Around seven,

  Back curving like an S

  From carrying shingles all day,

  Or skin dusted with pink insulation

  Like a prickly Hostess Snowball.

  He'd grump at me

  For having too many lights on-

  "Don't you know that costs money?"

  Or for reading in the dark-

  "You'll go blind!"

  But every evening

  He'd heave an old

  Cast-iron pot,

  Black and crusty with burnt-on oil,

  Onto our stove, and make popcorn

  For us to share

  While Mom prayed the Rosary.

  We talk more now.

  We understand each other, mostly.

  But the popcorn I make never tastes

  Like love.

  SIGN OF DISDAIN

  When I was young

  I gave guests

  The mismatched silverware

  To tell them

  They were unwelcome.

  SUDDEN-ONSET FEAR OF MORTALITY

  Helping freshmen register

  As I prepare to depart forever

  Is like a toddler smoking a cigarette--

  Something went terribly wrong somewhere but you're not sure

  What, when, or how.

  These children mill about, bipedal sheep

  Led to the slaughter by various guardian figures,

  And I sharpen the knives,

  Smiling like a Judas-goat.

  Three years-maybe four-separate us,

  But there's a gulf

  Which yawns,

  Devouring my identity.

  I am an adult.

  I am afraid.

  SOME MORNINGS

  I look in the mirror

  And see my father's eyes:

  Pale blue like thin ice

  Over the deep water

  Of his burdens,

  Bitterness, and pain.

  I don't want

  To end up like him.

  But it's too late.

  A SURE SIGN OF MATURITY

  Like any intelligent, mature, classy individual,

  I eat Skittles

  From a Norman Rockwell whiskey tumbler.

  BEST READ IN A HEATH LEDGER VOICE

  Want to know how I got these scars?

  The dent in my forehead from a sharp-corned b
alustrade.

  The raised amoeba on my knee from flag football.

  The faint white burns on my forearms from playing with matches.

  The pill-sized gap in my soul depression stole away.

  COMBAT VETERAN

  "Is this what war feels like?"

  We'd go to the Cherry Creek fireworks show

  And I'd stand under blooming chemical trails

  With explosions thumping in my chest and throat,

  Asking myself that question.

  Afterward, we'd walk to Grandma's house.

  You can't bring Grandma to war.

  PLAYING COPS AND ROBBERS

  I brought the cap guns,

  And rope for tying hostages.

  My cousins trussed me up

  And laughed in the dark

  While I bit and kicked

  Like a captured orangutan.

  FUTURE SIGHT

  I once had a vision

  Where my life stretched before me

  Like a full-moon winter night-light

  Where you can see for miles across bare white fields

  And through skeleton trees.

  My life seemed just as cold.

  THE GOOD NEWS

  Have you accepted Cthulhu

  Into your heart?

  Yes, that's right.

  This whole book has been building up to a cult recruitment.

  Just be thankful I didn't mention Thetans.

  Whoops.

  THIS IS NOT A PAGE.

  THIS IS ALSO NOT A PAGE.

  ESPECIALLY FOR TEACHERS

  After I die,

  Please let me rest.

  Don't use these poems

  On your English test.

  They've got no meaning

  For you to find,

  Except in my heart

  And in your mind.

  What I'm saying is,

  Don't even try

  To teach these poems

  After I die.

  Seriously, I'll haunt you something fierce.

 

  LOOK, NONE OF THESE ARE PAGES, OKAY? INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK.

  FOR REASONS.

  AND I RECOGNIZE THE INHERENT HYPOCRISY IN WRITING A MESSAGE ON THIS BLANK PAGE.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Greg Meyer was born in Minnesota, raised in Minnesota, and will most likely die in Minnesota. From an early age, Greg was fascinated by books, and by the age of eleven was single-handedly responsible for 42% of withdrawals from the local library. Inspired by Christopher Paolini's Eragon, Greg decided he could do just as good a job of writing high-fantasy Star Wars. He couldn't. But from then on, he was hooked. He's written fiction ever since. After a short stint in technical school, Greg wound up with a Bachelor's in English from Gustavus Adolphus College, completely undermining the college's standing as a reputable college and not a diploma mill. While at Gustavus, Greg was repeatedly published in Firethorne, the college literary magazine. This lapse in editorial oversight encouraged him, to disastrous results.

  Greg's writings can be found in Firethorne, this collection, and online at cthulhuwept.com. He regrets choosing that as his domain name because it's not exactly easy to tell someone about.

  If, for some inexplicable reason, you would like to contact Greg, he can be emailed at cthulhuwept@gmail.com. Signing him up to receive pictures of cute baby animals is considered an acceptable form of communication. His password is not the one on his luggage. Nor is it "Password."

  EXTRA-SPECIAL POEM AT THE END

  I word good

  Like I use to could.