I am an extension of some primal will to survive
But something bigger in here
Is asking
Why

In the cold dead of space
The voyager one
Floating forth
With dark was the night
By Blind Willie Johnson
Engraved onto a gold plated disk
In its belly
So fitting

I feel no kinship with gay culture
Yet I am a *******
I feel no kinship with the heterosexuals either
Yet I lust after unhinged limbs in the dead of night
And I look for a concrete self
In unobtainable categories
That allure and allude me
And 300 people have been sentenced to death in Egypt
But I'm thinking about where my **** goes
And writing poetry about it

I loved her body
And I used it up
The parts I liked
I drank up with a fever
Of thirst
That left her
Dry and frail
And I would have felt bad
If I wasn’t so
Dry and frail
When I met her
And now I suppose she’ll
Go
And find someone else
Whose parts she likes
And after that we’ll both be hydrated enough
To look at the parts we aren’t so fond of.

I’m awake again now
And I have to get out of bed
Maybe its 2 maybe its 3 am
But just the same
I step out
Walk around
This apartment with the fevered steps of a mad man
In these moments, oh I know you Ophelia.
The walls of solace, silent, and stagnant
Around our troubled heads
Our love is indeed as brief
As we have been told
By men who madness seems to not touch
Because their desires have the longevity of steel
And you and I, Ophelia are made of clay
The water, I understand how it felt to you now
Inviting and cold
Able to sooth our aching feet
From the constant pacing
How nice it must have been to dissolve into its currents
To rid yourself of the heavy footsteps
Stooping on your heart the friction
Must have made your smooth skin melt
And oh, Ophelia I understand
How enticing that cold water must have been.

There is a sort of romance one can find at a bar
A mysterious sense of love
Removed from everyday life
From work or phone calls home
If you close your eyes you can hear it
The clacking of ice-cube
The clacking of glass
The slow pour of a beer
The faster swish of it being
Slid down to your hand
Bumping once or twice on the uneven wooden surface
The slightly cold drip running down the side of your glass
These sounds are romantic
Hemmingway wrote at a bar
Odds are your parents feel in love in one
First kisses and embraces with friends you’ve missed
They happen at a bar
If you close your ears you can see it
A dingy light from over head
A spotlight for a pretty girl’s smile
The colors that the last sip of whisky
After they’re watered down with ice
The swooshing hues of red and white
Inside wine glasses from a couple a few seats down
The hand of the bartender covering yours
As you hand them their tip
And in that same second lock eyes
Before quickly looking down
A love in a life before this one maybe.
One can find romance in a bar
In the littlest of things
When paid attention to
They hold a sense of mystery.

She shot me dead on
With a pistol that
Would have looked better on a cowboy
It was too heavy for her holster
Her body shifted from side to side
As she walked towards me
And she had to eventually prop her hand
Up on her unarmed hip
As she stopped to stop over me
She let her sweat drip down from
Her forehead to dip of her collar bone
And she let her mouth smile
Bigger than had seen it grow in years
She didn’t bother to wipe off
Her black powered fingers
She touched the spot just below my neck
Where I could feel the bullet sink further in
She shot me dead on
And I remembered telling her once
How she wore tears like a diamond necklace
She shot me dead on
And I remembered telling her once
How I much preferred rubies.

You are reading a poem
And with most poems
You need to pay attention
So that you don't miss anything
You might even need to re-read a line or so
But don't worry
Not this one

If you miss a beat
You create a new one
**** metre

It's crazy how you can be at the right place at the right time
And become a millionaire
Or the wrong place at the wrong time and die In a gutter
And how arbitrarily these people are chosen
And how many things we can invent
To make it all seem like it makes sense