Jan 2018
What a blessing to realize
That the gynecologist in my dream
Is not real, that his diagnosis about my ****** are not real
And that my ****** is not real,
And really was just bits of subconscious particles, cerebral filaments shuffling up
My cortex and flowing through my pathways
To my post-memory. And that her reports
About my venereal disease was only a screenshot I saw two days ago while perusing
The internet; I opened a new browser and still was without a ******. And my ex-girlfriend
Curled like lumpy milk in the backseat of the car I don’t own was also without venereal disease, but that she wasn’t also driving this
Dream that I was driving. This dream built of syntax and broken promises.
Though I wish the publisher that put my book into print had been real. That the newspaper with its four-star review had been real. That the gorgeous woman at the party who assumed I was some famous poet and lead my hand up her *****-less dress had too been real,
But was in fact an explosion of Azeroth, as was her twin succubus kissing my neck passionately when my wife approached from behind. And her lips fell off of me like autumn leaves onto. Pond, and her twin shriveled into a scrap of paper,
And the wind took them out into the sky,
Far above my eyes. Her taste dissolving heavily Into my mouth with only an inky taste of her
Dulciloquent compliments to remember her
And the way she tasted like my 20-something
Debaucheries. I’m already forgetting them, and forgetting what it felt like to have men only Want me for the ****** I’m already
Forgetting that I had. I’ve already forgot their Names and the words they used to address me.
I’m already minutes away from the days of that,
That inky dream where they undressed me
Sticking their tongues into my throat. And I had four throats and twelve Eyes. I was an idiot to believe that I was the only one in the world
Worth never forgetting. Which for that moment
Was worth having venereal diseases and doctors
Calling me during parties on weekends. It was worth all of it, and the disgraces, and now
Now it has all vanished, along with all of them in it, and this short blurb of words is all of their existence that remains
That the gynecologist in my dream
Is not real, that his diagnosis about my ****** are not real
And that my ****** is not real,
And really was just bits of subconscious particles, cerebral filaments shuffling up
My cortex and flowing through my pathways
To my post-memory. And that her reports
About my venereal disease was only a screenshot I saw two days ago while perusing
The internet; I opened a new browser and still was without a ******. And my ex-girlfriend
Curled like lumpy milk in the backseat of the car I don’t own was also without venereal disease, but that she wasn’t also driving this
Dream that I was driving. This dream built of syntax and broken promises.
Though I wish the publisher that put my book into print had been real. That the newspaper with its four-star review had been real. That the gorgeous woman at the party who assumed I was some famous poet and lead my hand up her *****-less dress had too been real,
But was in fact an explosion of Azeroth, as was her twin succubus kissing my neck passionately when my wife approached from behind. And her lips fell off of me like autumn leaves onto. Pond, and her twin shriveled into a scrap of paper,
And the wind took them out into the sky,
Far above my eyes. Her taste dissolving heavily Into my mouth with only an inky taste of her
Dulciloquent compliments to remember her
And the way she tasted like my 20-something
Debaucheries. I’m already forgetting them, and forgetting what it felt like to have men only Want me for the ****** I’m already
Forgetting that I had. I’ve already forgot their Names and the words they used to address me.
I’m already minutes away from the days of that,
That inky dream where they undressed me
Sticking their tongues into my throat. And I had four throats and twelve Eyes. I was an idiot to believe that I was the only one in the world
Worth never forgetting. Which for that moment
Was worth having venereal diseases and doctors
Calling me during parties on weekends. It was worth all of it, and the disgraces, and now
Now it has all vanished, along with all of them in it, and this short blurb of words is all of their existence that remains
