"Love"

I think love is the most beautiful thing
in the world,
and I don’t give a fuck,
because I have no original ideas.

I’m a pathetic man
whose goal is to read poetry
in order
to get women
to fall in love with him,
and you’d think I was reprimanding myself
and revealing my horrible dark side
by saying that,
but I was really saying
“women who hear this, fall in love with me, or else,”
because that’s what it comes down to —
an ultimatum,
life or death,
and sure, maybe I’m being extreme,
but you walk around and tell me
that things aren’t extreme,
Jesus,
I’ve seen a man jack off to a gap window display,
so don’t tell me that love isn’t important.

 

and maybe you didn’t get that series of lines,
that’s OK,
most of them are subtext
designed to impress people
who know too much about art,
all you need to listen to is
the 12 percent
which contain words like “fuck,”
and “ass,”
and “ride my dongstick, you naughty schoolgirl.”
because in a poem about love
we all need to know the relevant things,
because we’re all looking for the complete definition of love,
if only we could open our encyclopedia brittanicas
and look up love and know,
but love isn’t that easy.

they say cupid loved my so called life
and when the show was cancelled
cupid cried and cried and cried and
decided that he was going to fuck up
all of humanity,
and this is why china has a trouble with its birthrate
and arkansas rhymes with date rape
and iraq is iraq,
and the fat lipo-sucked out of california
could be
its own island.  

but this isn’t a poem about geography,
this is a poem about love,
the bane of my existence,
the reason why I hate valentine’s day
and halloween,
which is about ghosts
and I think you know where I’m going here.
I’m going to the land of girlfriends of halloweens past,
and maybe I’ve only got three ghosts in this land,
but this doesn’t mean that they don’t bring their friends,
who are the ghosts of girls who have rejected me,
because girls rarely travel alone in this land
. lydia is from this land. 

I used to kiss her
while listening to
the cure’s “just like heaven,”
now I don’t see her anymore,
so that song makes me sad,
why must we associate music with
our love lives?
I’m not trying to be profound here,
I’m just saying that music really takes me
back, way back,
and I can’t explain the memory process involved in that,
because I am not a psychology major,
and maybe
my problem with picking up women
has to do with me always asking,
“what’s your major?”
but that only makes me as cheesy
as 90 percent of guys
looking for women,
and 86 percent of them have women,
so what’s the deal here?
maybe I shouldn’t think of women in terms
of picking them up,
and maybe I should open up my sensitive side,
but really,
the sensitive side sucks.
I’ve been there.
you can only imagine the kinds of sweaters
they make you wear.
it’s not fair,
love is not fair,
and war is not fair,
and I don’t care what anyone has to say about
any of that,
I feel unloved,
I’m sorry I need people
to tell me I’m cool,
I’m just that way.
aren’t you?
am I the only one?
I know that I can’t be that
misunderstood. 

but you don’t want to
understand me!
you just want to hear the part
where I talk about my small dick again,
because the asian man will always be plagued
by this rumor
until he is brave enough to fling it out
and say,

“HA! WE ARE GIGANTIC!”

this is not the direction
I wanted to take
this poem.
honestly, I just want to be in the arms
of my true love, in a house, in a room,
in a wonderful, perfect world with our
two children,
a boy and a girl,
helga and lamar,
but maybe I shouldn’t have said this,
woody allen taught us
that marriage is a death trap.

I’m almost as old as his girlfriend.

she could be the long lost sister

I’ve been looking for,

maybe my mother gave her away

when we lived in china,

wait, I never lived in china.

I think I’ve begun lying in this poem.

I was hoping to talk about love

for 3.4 minutes

and then

come to a conclusion,

somehow defining love

within the poem,

but

I don’t have any answers

and I’m looking for help from anyone,

because love has got me fucked up

and dying,

because I feel retarded without anyone to hold me,

and maybe that’s sentimental,

but what’s wrong with sentimental? 

to self: fuck you, I’m OK! 

you see, I can’t even decide what I need

much less understand what I’m saying.

you see, all I’m saying

is

someone love me.

-Beau Sia

Tank top: Forever 21

Lace leotard: American Apparel

Skirt: vintage H&M (Closet Exchange- Abington, PA)

Shoes: thrifted (Philly AIDS Thrift- Philadelphia, PA)

Sunglasses: flea market

Bracelet: flea market