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Sunday, December 22, 2013

The Emotional Slut is An Artistic Addict


They say addiction runs in the family
Aunt Ellie was an alcoholic
Bathed her organs in liquor until they drowned
years too early to see Grandma
obsess over feeding us more servings than even Jewish guilt could digest
She offers every layer of her refrigerator
Desperate to cook up a way to be needed
When necessity escapes my mother
And I venture to adulthood
She regurgitates the same speech
Binging on old grudges
And vomiting up rants
like a bulimic of rhetoric

But I am no different
My life is a series of alls and nothings
I could never get enough of a boy or business
I get hung up on hang ups
Retell the same stories
I’m a running example of someone who can’t exercise constraint
Too loud
Too quick
I’ve been never been anything but polarizing
Addicted to the chaos that is me

These poems are just a fix
Each creation is an escalation
Because I can’t settle
With the last thing I’ve penned being the most potent
I’ve heard of cocaine addicts
peddling all their belongings for a new dose
Well I’ve been selling my life story for a new hit
The only difference between us
Is that I write lines rather than snort them

I’ve scraped up memories that don’t belong on paper
Pawned stolen moments for some rhymes
Never apologizing for degrading people into characters
Hoping to be acquitted in the silence
Dousing my liver in intoxicating letters
taking shots of words strong enough to erase yesterday
But I can’t backspace history like its in a word document
Drenching my voice in sterling metaphors never made my tongue silver

So I write things in someone else’s voice
Some big shot who thinks she’s hot
Because she can rhyme some slime
Chime in with a symphony
I slammed together a girl who wanted your respect not your sympathy
They weren’t poems
They collections of words that sound pretty
Language that fits but doesn’t fit me
But when I write and say it
Plan and play it
I borrow the tongue of a character I created
And my empty voice box is sated
Because no one will think it’s void when dressed in wrapping paper

Strangers exclaim I have a gift
But my family of addiction experts
can detect the scent of me fucking myself over
Drowning my personality in persona
Even if the aftertaste is talent
The last time I gave away heirloom of whispers
Finding validation through publication
Mama grabbed my pen and tattooed whore across my wrist
And it made sense
I’ve been walking around naked
Plunging zippers and seams with prose
Hoping if I decide to make myself this way
when the world touches I’m not being probed
You can’t hurt me if I make the first cut
And Mama’s right when she tells me I’m an emotional slut
Undressing to deposit more snaps in my vault of self esteem
But what gives you the right to intervene
Just because you sing another tune of obsession

When I rhyme I’m not honest
I am safe
No one recognizes a cry for salvation expressed in art
All the artists I know
Are broken pieces shattering on the floor
But it’s acceptable because after a certain point it looks like shimmer
Something innovative or creative
A beautiful abstraction
Because we love when we can relate to things
When the cracks match the ruptures in our hearts
But I’m tired of being enabled
By a world that lets me drunkenly drive my life
Because they like the designs of the skid-marks I leave behind

But where’s the rehab or remission
For an obscure addiction
Like poetic submission
Derision for my love of revision
Incision that can refrain the wordsmith in my brain
That explains my progress and pain
On a public platform
Maybe you can reform
Someone addicted to drugs or sex
But what do you prescribe to an obsessed scribe
Who only feels alive

When the life is recorded in text?

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Ariel is available and interested in anything creative!
For spoken word performances & workshops, web & graphic design, or other writing/film projects please contact via email at arielsob@usc.edu.
New York & Los Angeles work preferred!