Call Me By Your Name, Which Is Irresponsible and Not Meteoric

By | 1 August 2018

We both know it’s easier between two beautiful people
We both know it’s easier when it’s a nice mountain mansion in Italy
with a shallow pool and a live-in adult-nanny
And we both know it’s easier since it’s summer with ripe-pink peaches
and nobody interfering without knocking
“He looks like he never has to work a day in his life,” your friend said
over Vietnamese coffee, while you are feeling despair, feeling ugly
(must be the weather’s blue)
“But how do you hate a movie this good?”
Since it’s as if the executive himself has come through the party crowds
to hand you the rolled-up movie poster:
“The whole thing, Hon, is tailor-made just for you!”
Even the father is very gentle and educated so you’re sure he won’t hit
Admit it: it’s always two hot dudes and neither of them looks like you
See how the camera cleverly pans away since everyone would agree
a depiction of a late summer night in Italy
is better than two guys making love to each other
“He’s such a reticent guy,” your friend spoke in defense of the director
“He’s even currently meditating in the west wing of the castle, considering a sequel.”
“Maybe they will have something fat next year,” another friend presumed
“If you put your money on this one.”
“His abs tastes like jelly,” another friend, the pretty one, texted
“If you want to date someone beautiful, be BEAUTIFUL first,” the pretty friend
texted again
But beauty in fashion is like rotten bread
It poisons your brain and gives you intellectual diarrhea
It drives you to think of death
And remember: this isn’t a story where a fat boy comes to love himself
and no longer finds nothing in the mirror
This isn’t a story where a fat boy comes to love every single blue on his body
This isn’t even a story where a Japanese girl is saved from a meteor crash
despite the similar title:
instead, it tells how one summer such love
strikes such boy like a meteor
(but thank you God, he can still play the piano)
Think about it: it’s most important for the silk-stocking middle-class
to discover that they too are capable of love
and also of adapting a best-selling novel
into a movie
and a movie
into a once-in-a-lifetime experience
since it doesn’t show at your homecountry or homecity or home.
Alone in a theater in Bangkok
you kept looking at your phone
waiting for this boy to call back, until
“Can you please stop with the phone?” said a Korean girl
three seats away from you
she later giggled with guilty pleasure so palpable
when the pretty boy thrust his obscure penis into the ill-fated peach
(the latter likely grew up with the story of the human gods, their holy teeth
sinking into him as his soul ascended to fruit-heaven)
If I were you:
Hey, in spite of everything
I do love food
I like my egg sunshine
my cake full moon
And I want you to stop peaching with my heart
“Pass my heart to, ugh, anybody,”
a late poet that I turned into an imaginary friend once cried
You are worthy of anyone’s time, you know
Some people like your look and personality
Even your mom
And do you remember your lost ID?
See, in the end, you found it
under the towering dirty laundry
Now you know which country you come from
which species you belong
to and even your birth religion
So you know who you are, I guess…?
That means he doesn’t have to call you
or any of his names anymore

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