“As if it mattered,” “There Are Others: x-mas at the bar” and “The sound of lonely”

“As if it mattered,” “There Are Others: x-mas at the bar” and “The sound of lonely”

As if it mattered

I've been lost before

On the wings of a skeletal butterfly

And carried over the landscape

Of my own mind.

A little bee hive

Plush with synapsed ants

Just getting by

In feigned importance.

From above I could see

Little crypts of life

Flurrying about

As if it mattered.

Of course they were only

Shards of myself

Mirroring my broken face—

A sad god playing sick games.

Truth is just imagination;

Taking a bone and stacking

It into a mountain and naming it

As if it mattered.

There Are Others: x-mas at the bar

There are other lonelys like me,

Feigning smiles

When they could

Be real.

And the drum

Is tilted outward

“To get more rim shots” and

of course

I’ll make a joke about it to the man on my left.

“A titos martini. Wanna say anything else

about that or...

Ok, titos martini.”

A divorcee in a puffy faux-fur coat on my right.

And the singer with chops

Has a cute, wholesome voice

(And probably terribly sadistic lyrics).

“Want the disco ball on?”

“Yeah man it’s a party...

Check, mic, 1-2, check.”

An x-mas song about stealing rum and

“Gettin’ arrested, shootin’ up

coke and smokin’ ice!”

And we all listen.

The sad cherry story set to

“Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland”

With yodeling.

Biting peckers and loaded guns—

Russian roulette—

“It’s more fun that way!”

Two pro dancers spin

Off and back

And a woman who has been

Itching to dance for years

Stands and

Claps from the sideline.

Then the divorcee spills

The contents of her

Giant purse and the dancey

Clapper picks up the pieces.

“Been drinking since noon.”

“Really infatuated with you—

I like your haircut—

I have a lot of complex thoughts—

But I’m a simple man. Welder.”

“Was gonna give my number to someone else—

But she left.”

“Hi, I’m Calvin—” he wrote

On a folded notecard.

There are others.

The sound of lonely

is profoundly rich,

like the noise dirt makes

When it skips and bounds down

the summit of a pyramidical mound.

And I still won't answer the phone

because I crave my silent self.

No amount of coaxing will make me over-appreciate

your brazen efforts enough to show up in person.

But I do appreciate the gaze.

Love is a form of cognitive dissonance after a while.

You love someone then you love to annoy them

and hate their lovely annoyingness.

About the Author

Brandyce Ingram

Brandyce Ingram is a writer, tutor, and jazz-head in Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared in The Esthetic Apostle, The Austin Chronicle, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, OxMag, and Cathexis Northwest Press. She prefers questions over answers, dead televisions over propaganda, and cats over all else.

Read more work by Brandyce Ingram.