unfortunately, he’s a terrible poet

“I look at her and my heart throbs, true

Her lips lock me in a trance, she is the most precious thing

Her calm precision fills my soul, she is the most precious thing

Her lighthearted mock, I hold my head in my hands,

She is the most precious thing.

I will love her always, true–“


With a scratch of white noise,

the needle is separated from the wax.

Structure collapses inward

and ughch-

language is not good enough.


Turning away from lust, love.

Condensation, each drop an allegory,

wicked away in a delicate network of ravines. Hand,

fantasy, memory, a hazy crossbreed taking place sometime in the never-to-be.

The straw bends with a plastic pop, clearly compromised

so the barista leans over, a strand of hair falling forward from underneath her visor

“Those are really the worst, don’t you think?” she says

and the broken seconds tick steadily beyond the moment before

until the stirrer is tapped upon the lip of the cup and is then promptly disposed of.


Coffee having been drank he goes about his day,

“Socialize” ends with detachment, a return.

He reads for a bit, flips on the tele,

briefly wrestles with androgynous Boredom and its

cousin, Distraction, until settling

later into an awestruck

gaze unfocused on an unimportance

while he grapples with her unending adieu,

a mithril ink tattoo center justified upon the intangible.



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