A PAINTING OF A CLOWN THAT ISN'T SAD ANYMORE ($5)
i went to a house party
i went to have a conversation
the walls were the same old white
the walls welcomed me as an old friend
i met a friend i hadn't seen in 15 years
the beer pong game had lasted 15 years
i felt like i had emerged from a deep sleep
i felt a hand being lifted from my chest
i stayed after the hottest person left
i stayed inside a perfect bubble
i went home completely
empty and floating
jitters
i keep leaving
coffee cups upon
my heart. the circles
pile like cels. the
illusion of movement.
the heart outsourcing
its animation. a chronic
aversion to coasters.
another poem about
coffee, another pile
of cels to auction.
the secret history
of a million ways
to move the body.
a painstaking
attention to detail
in the broad strokes
of living, breathing
visibly to leave a
trace. to trace
a life. to live
for seconds.
if i wash my heart.
if i clean up
the movement, keep
the process a secret --
pity dig
i use a clumsily large archaeologist's brush
to uncover people ostensibly living like me
i drape myself in their history it slides off
too velvety, too slick for the loose knit of my skin
i pull the fabric over me desperate
to mould it as it hardens like old lava
the heat-rose fades the pulsation of all i didn’t do
ripples uncomfortably through the landscape
so i take a clumsily large roll of plastic tape
and a few stakes, as if no one else can ever see
what i’ve found, as if nothing can escape the dig site
i wrest a clumsily large strand of dna
from what i hope is my ancestor’s hands lay it next to mine
pore over each infinity of each letter clone myself
and let my clone sleep stay awake for seven years
and find nothing as i become another different person
with another clumsy brush
i went to a house party
i went to have a conversation
the walls were the same old white
the walls welcomed me as an old friend
i met a friend i hadn't seen in 15 years
the beer pong game had lasted 15 years
i felt like i had emerged from a deep sleep
i felt a hand being lifted from my chest
i stayed after the hottest person left
i stayed inside a perfect bubble
i went home completely
empty and floating
jitters
i keep leaving
coffee cups upon
my heart. the circles
pile like cels. the
illusion of movement.
the heart outsourcing
its animation. a chronic
aversion to coasters.
another poem about
coffee, another pile
of cels to auction.
the secret history
of a million ways
to move the body.
a painstaking
attention to detail
in the broad strokes
of living, breathing
visibly to leave a
trace. to trace
a life. to live
for seconds.
if i wash my heart.
if i clean up
the movement, keep
the process a secret --
pity dig
“queer
in a way that’s failed me”
-Human
Bog, Baths
to uncover people ostensibly living like me
i drape myself in their history it slides off
too velvety, too slick for the loose knit of my skin
i pull the fabric over me desperate
to mould it as it hardens like old lava
the heat-rose fades the pulsation of all i didn’t do
ripples uncomfortably through the landscape
so i take a clumsily large roll of plastic tape
and a few stakes, as if no one else can ever see
what i’ve found, as if nothing can escape the dig site
i wrest a clumsily large strand of dna
from what i hope is my ancestor’s hands lay it next to mine
pore over each infinity of each letter clone myself
and let my clone sleep stay awake for seven years
and find nothing as i become another different person
with another clumsy brush
Ian Martin is a Tetris
enthusiast and part-time artist. Ian's work has appeared recently in Train, Half a Grapefruit, where is
the river, Bad Nudes, Plenitude Magazine, and Pretty Owl Poetry. Ian has published 4
chapbooks, most recently PLACES TO HIDE
(Coven Editions, 2018) and YOU'RE GOING
TO HAVE TO KEEP THIS UP FOREVER (AngelHousePress, 2018). When not writing,
Ian develops small games and complains online. [http://ian-martin.net]