Neurotic Strip Tease: An Introduction

The other day, I watched a strip tease without music.
I've seen enough porn in my life to know where it all goes: unrealistic-use-of-tongue kissing, blowjob/animalistic rutting, penetration by either fingers or penis, Big Finish worthy of an honorary mention, repeat. They all vary in length, 3 minutes to 12 minutes to 30 minutes and up. They're all the same.
Without sound, the usually imploring surmise of a barely legal woman undressing became less appealing, arousing... it was distasteful.
I never made it through the video.

I sleep with my window open to hear the night sounds, airplanes flying overhead and front doors being slammed, car windows rolling down and gusts of cigarette smoke. I'm lying now, because you can't hear cigarette smoke.
I hear my brother yelling at his girlfriend and her dropping a supposedly 'secretive' sock of crushed up marijuana and her bong shattering on the street.
I hear clouds rolling by, completely oblivious to the birds flying through or the suffocating smog.
I hear my own beating heart, I hear my lungs stealing air and my knowledge decomposing.
I hear it all, my erratic breathing and the hair on my knuckles tickling the inside of my thigh.

I remember a conversation I had with my friend Noah, who I have slowly lost touch with.
He told me that women were confusing, but I wasn't.
"You're a good woman."
I like to keep this in mind because 1. I would not consider myself a good woman and 2. I suppose I have fooled some into thinking I am.
I write because I'd look barmy talking to myself more than I already do, narrating imaginary lives in crowded bookstores and slamming poetry against the diaphanous brick walls of my house.
I write because written words look beautiful, and my personality is too repugnant for me to have anything nice to look at anymore.

I write poems, ones that have no correlation to each other except that they came from my decision to use my words without using my voice.
My sanity is a slapdash hooker with a brown paper bag I used to bring my 3rd grade lunches in over her head, and I write to remove it, to slowly poke holes where her eyes should be, rip out where the mouth should breath.

I want to replace the void of the mute strip tease with the music I hear coming through my window at night. I want to hear Chopin every time I take a piss, and falling rain against wind chimes when I'm around to see the world implode.
I can allude to many things, and my emphatically obvious love of existence tears through every medium I pour thought into, and I'll go anywhere to chase the words I exist to write.

For now, however, I remain an insolent teenage writer, a Kurt Vonnegut wannabee and a gender confused lump of skin and muscle and tissue and 6 quarts of human blood. So grotesque, yet so wonderfully alive.