Don’t touch me with those gummy hands those scummy hands those filthy
fuck knows where they’ve been hands. I’m scared of so little. So little
gets past me.
You could whittle it with tobacco in your mouth until the
sun sets on the wreckage
and the blood turns to tea. I’m nowhere. I’m
plastic. I’m silly maw. I’m Halloween punch splash.
I’m warrior rainbow
singing and shining
from my vast and vicious
glittering hell of ice.
This loathing tastes like Wolf Brand chili (no beans) and mustard and
and white bread and fried SPAM. This loathing feels like
old cheap stilettos sweaty on my stripper feet.
This loathing sounds
like “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago although not as poignant.
loathing looks like American television at 1:58 a.m. on a Sunday in
There will be no church no sanctuary no redeem no solve.
There is a
trail that kisses the sky with trees and rocks that do all the bleeding
but not for free but that trail is not mine it is too far from
I drove to the ocean, put it all in a bottle but the bottle will
not make it to bonny Scotland
or Rio de Janeiro. No one can find this
can turn this into anything other
than what it is.
It is common.
It is ugly.
It is fat with 39 years, most of them belonging to Texas and various
small towns and men who sound better
and love better
over the phone.
It’s sticky it’s messy it’s dripping from my wrists.
It’s tackier than a sympathy card from the dollar store with lukewarm pineapple juice
and stale pretzels for a snack.
It won’t make the ball.
It won’t save lives.
It won’t stop fists from slamming the slut
from goddess eyes.
(Marie Crenshaw still scorns me, her least favorite,
It’s fucking basic.
You’re long in tooth, doll.
You should get it by now.
When a man sends you a picture
of his cock it’s not intellectual discourse
and emotional intimacy he’s after.
There won’t be an airport meeting.
Forget fucking on an actual train.
This is where trains and hotel rooms
are invisible and you cannot smell
the cum or piss or sweat or cologne.
Kisses are tasteless.
This works for most.
If it doesn’t work for you
write a bitchy poem about it.
This is where the muse comes in
spreads her legs
a quick fuck
and a century of cuddle.
It’s over. It’s dust.
The wicked world
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