Feb 2016
You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attacks
drowning in your own period blood,
or some intense ****** action
in a local library lesbian bathroom stall,
or maybe months go by
with no action at all
and your mechanic sober S.O. buys coasters
and you stop getting parking tickets
and you envision him suddenly leaving you
out of realization
that he
and we
are becoming exactly
what we
set out to destroy, in a
heteronormative scandalized relationship built by
secret shredded library books,
scraps of meaningless
faintly relevant
love poems and sarcastic deceit.
Or he cooks an egg for you
after borrowing the only sinless skin you have,
but you don’t eat single celled foods.
Or he picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park,
or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street
that faintly smelled like you after you got home
from whatever ***** bus stop entertainment you thrived off of.
And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend
in lost Chicago, or Seattle.
Mile high clubs,
train stops,
never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison,
at least that is what he would always tell you.
Then soon after his fourth weekend away
he painted his nails black
and listened to reggae
and wore sandals that exposed his feet
and pasty soul to the planet,
****** skin,
vain,
pale,
untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals
a strict converse only policy
he made up for himself
in fifth grade after joining his first band named,
The Roadies,
The Pits,
The Sirs,
And finally he leaves you
the same week
you two were suppose to
fly back to your hometown
to visit your family and your teenage year friends,
half of which are married
or engaged
or pregnant,
or something of the sort,
and the other half are still puking up yesterday's
gas station sushi
lunch break,
9-5,
because all they do is go home and drink
or go out and smoke
or if they're trying to be super ******
they might hunt for a ****** needle,
a freshly ****** needle,
but really
any old ***** would do.
drowning in your own period blood,
or some intense ****** action
in a local library lesbian bathroom stall,
or maybe months go by
with no action at all
and your mechanic sober S.O. buys coasters
and you stop getting parking tickets
and you envision him suddenly leaving you
out of realization
that he
and we
are becoming exactly
what we
set out to destroy, in a
heteronormative scandalized relationship built by
secret shredded library books,
scraps of meaningless
faintly relevant
love poems and sarcastic deceit.
Or he cooks an egg for you
after borrowing the only sinless skin you have,
but you don’t eat single celled foods.
Or he picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park,
or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street
that faintly smelled like you after you got home
from whatever ***** bus stop entertainment you thrived off of.
And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend
in lost Chicago, or Seattle.
Mile high clubs,
train stops,
never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison,
at least that is what he would always tell you.
Then soon after his fourth weekend away
he painted his nails black
and listened to reggae
and wore sandals that exposed his feet
and pasty soul to the planet,
****** skin,
vain,
pale,
untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals
a strict converse only policy
he made up for himself
in fifth grade after joining his first band named,
The Roadies,
The Pits,
The Sirs,
And finally he leaves you
the same week
you two were suppose to
fly back to your hometown
to visit your family and your teenage year friends,
half of which are married
or engaged
or pregnant,
or something of the sort,
and the other half are still puking up yesterday's
gas station sushi
lunch break,
9-5,
because all they do is go home and drink
or go out and smoke
or if they're trying to be super ******
they might hunt for a ****** needle,
a freshly ****** needle,
but really
any old ***** would do.
A beat poem inspired work
