This is the song I would sing if my name was Brian Sella (aka Sink or Swim)

I don’t open my eyes under water
Even now that I’m older
I still can’t do it
But I learned how to swim
Yeah, how to swim
By being thrown in the deep end
Yeah, in the deep end
And my first kiss was her pulling my face in
And my first fuck was her pulling me to bed
And I don’t open my eyes under water
No, I don’t open my eyes under water
Yeah, we took a train up the coast
Where she tried to get me to open my eyes in the ocean
But I
Yeah, we took a plane to get away
Where she tried to get me to open my eyes in the hotel pool
But I
Yeah, I almost drowned in protest
Yeah in protest; in protest yeah
But she left me the year after that
So, it doesn’t matter if I wasn’t trying
Yeah, she left me long after that
And it doesn’t matter if she was lying
On the floor in her undies
Or on my bed with that other guy
The only thing that came to my mind to say:
“Knowing about this must make your mom uncomfortable.”
Six feet under; the early grave you put her in
She’s tossing and turning just to find some rest
I learned how to swim
By being thrown in the deep end
Yeah and my first
Was her pulling me in head first
And I almost drowned, yeah, almost drowned
But I still don’t open my eyes under water
No, I still don’t open my eyes under water
I just can’t stand the sight when I’m sinking
But don’t feel bad for me
It’s my own fault
No, don’t feel bad
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This is the song I would sing if my name was Brian Sella (aka Sink or Swim)

Une Rhapsodie Pour La Nuit

On this cold dark night, my feet have found pavement
And I tread it wandering aimlessly
As a loose pebble turns underfoot
My eyes catch the sight of my truest friend
And the pebble becomes the dirt and rock of its face
Lo! There in the sky
If you look closely, you can see
Me and her, her light, my gait
Her soft dirt under my feet
As the Earth rises from behind her horizon
In that moment I am with her
And then it’s gone
And as I stare at her face
Lost among the dimensions: space and time
A thundering chaos boils within me
At first it’s in my belly, then rises to my chest
Next it’s in my lungs, until it finally leaves my mouth
My back arches, my nose points to my mistress in the sky
A chorus of tones escape me, held in frequency
A gutteral beautiful primal howl emerges
In the distance many variations join
The birds flee their perches; the animals fly to their shelters
I run. Like I never have before. All control evaporates
The pounding of other runners join with my own
The pack is in flight
And I travel this countryside as the moon waxes and wanes in its way
The pack devours and divides its spoils for the strength of the pack
My eye catches the moon’s face and a melody springs into action
My heart is uplifted as I dance into the sky joining the stars’ nightly pirouette
And I glow. Only one amongst the myriad flares, at peace
I see past the horizon, the veil that haunts us all, and can only smile
For I envision the seeds I’ve planted one day someday blooming
On that day we shall be of one shared pack
All of the sky shall be the playground of the pups
And my mistress, that glittering celestial satellite, will look down upon us and rejoice
I return to this night; A smile plays across my face

Une Rhapsodie Pour La Nuit

An Open Letter To A Past Mistake

What would you say if I told you that I’ve written about you? Would you like it? Or, would you simply dismiss it as so many others have? … As I once did to you … I’m sorry; I was preoccupied. I didn’t let myself live in the real world. I was stuck in the fantasy I had created for myself in years previous. And now, it’s too late. Isn’t it? Oh, can we go back to the grass that beautiful Shabbat in Jerusalem? I’m so sorry I didn’t make you feel every bit of how beautiful you were, you are. Now that I at least have the words to say, it’s too late. You’ve surpassed me. You’re this wonderful intelligent giant, and I’m but a grasshopper skittering about at your feet. You occasionally look down with a warm smile marveling at my meek existence. And again, I’m sorry for I have self-imposed this silence between us. I think it’s because I feel ashamed for not letting you in. You were my manic pixie dream girl, but this isn’t a Woody Allen movie…

An Open Letter To A Past Mistake

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,
How do I tell her
That I’ve been chasing her
Ever since high school
But not this
Who she’s become
Who she was then
Not that that was all that great
I mean, she was all that
But I left me high and dry
She moved on into the arms of some other guy
And used me to facilitate
Her hand right into his left
Now I’m boiling over; full of hate
Eyes out the window, contemplating all that is
How do I tell me
That it’s all my fault
Without bending and breaking to the wind
Whispered from her lips
But not this
Who I’ve become
Versus who I was then
Not that I’m worth a shit
Or ever really was, admirable
And I left her just when I’d changed her mind
Knowing it’s my right that I’m right, about this
Her, or my, inevitable lackluster
Disappointment in one or the other
Now I’m welling up; eyes full of tears
Blurring all in sight, setting it all askew
How do I tell the tale
That has transpired
Without betraying
Any of our faults
And all that we’ve become?

 

Dear Reader

The Perfect Aesthetic Specimen

She-he doesn’t exist!
Quit holding yourself to their standard(s)
Because even for them
IT’S ONLY IN THEIR HEAD(S)
The perfect aesthetic specimen
A test tube in the cranial vestibule of their dreams
A petri stink solution full of confirmation bias
All too Electra-esque and Oedipus-ian
Yes even for the televangelist
And the open-minded agnost
They’ll tell you they want the six pack
Then opt for the dad bod’s keg
From here to Proxima Centauri
They’ve be lying to you, sorry
And you’ve been eating it up
Society’s soylent greens
To consume; perpetuated body shame
Ersatz window display mannequin
IT’S ALL IN THEIR HANDS
The perfect aesthetic specimen
Set to fit on a whim to their design
Entire think tanks are posed to devise
Your perfect aesthetic specimen

The Perfect Aesthetic Specimen