Take a cup of Dickinson,
add a bit of Poe;
a pinch of Rod McKuen,
not too much you know...
A teaspoon full of Kipling,
a tablespoon of Frost;
stir it in the ***,
so not much is lost.
A dash of Robert Service,
a dash of my friend, Shelly;
a little Tennyson,
is good for one man's belly.
For sadness, add Millay,
for humor, Ogden Nash;
for adventure, Masefield,
for D. Parker, something brash.
A recipe for poet's stew,
just simmer for an hour;
and relish the aroma,
of poetry and power.

He jokes that we'd argue over bedsides
We'd live in hipsterville &
I'd bike everywhere &
douse myself in patchouli each morning

He giggles at the thought of us
Dancing in our white-walled apt &
the wine spilling over our glasses &
the dog ******* in the tub

What a crazy thought--Us
Sanding our own dining table &
reading the headlines &
taking pills before breakfast

He laughs at these things
These things I've already thought

Buried under sheets alone
in wonderment
of what we could be

--
c

Loving you

Was the most

Beautiful

way to die

Your naked body
Pressed on mine
We kissed

I thought that
I should feel
Something

Thrill, euphoria
Lust, love
Or bliss

But no
I felt
Nothing

o, rèmy martin dreamer,
with cheap hen on your breath.
the good brown is not the backwoods
or juul pods in virgina tobacco,

&

maybe the good brown manifests in my hair,
before the ammonia, touching my scalp
and turning it as red as my tongue after
a strawberry lollipop. everything
tastes like you.

&

i wish i could touch you again,
just hold your hand, brush your
elbow, play with your hair.
but i also wish i could drive a thousand
machetes into your flesh, while screaming

&

writhing with trash-sickened fervor .
you are *****-inducing. you smell
like a thousand patchouli-burning
stoners, but you feel like velvet
and taste like sugar-sweat.
you might be popping a xan right now,
knee-deep in beautiful girls.
and i'm still dope-sick.