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can't say May 19
i guess **** isn't art
because it doesn't really
make much of an effort to
go beyond showing men and women
being men and women.

i remember when i was a kid in sunday school
i got a ***** when we learned that
adam and eve lived naked
in the garden of eden.

when i do **** i like to take off all of my clothes.
when i do **** i want to visit a beach
where a lot of people are naked.
I don’t mind if they’re men.
it's always eyes on the guy when you do ****.

im not like other straight guys
in the sense that i have a
few male pornstars i really like.
work it, homie.

is **** more like watching a movie
or is it more like having ***?
the other day my friends from twitter
were laughing at a guy
who called himself an 'adult toys enthusiast.'

i made more friends on twitter than i did in college.
i look at people having *** on the computer
and that is not cinema.

is sexuality a hobby?
*** is called sleeping with someone
is napping a hobby?
is watching **** like taking a ****?
is watching **** like breathing?

i guess if **** isn't art
then it isn't a poem either.
my bachelor turns two today.
its a lemon.  
i can hardly write my own name anymore.
how can i sing again?
i get other people's spit in my mouth.

my mother is dying.
same way as grandpa.
my mind is full of doubt.
can i tell you that i love you?
i don't care who you think you are.

i'm moving back out of my parents' house.
saving for a car.
there is a silent sadness here.
can you hear it?
madness, like a twister, paints the air a ***** yellow.

it is the memory of men
ranting, laughing, sobbing, all at once,
without pasts or futures.
do you like christian rock?
it is infectious.

what you need to know:
money is a concept with which we afford our dignity.
we are all dropped off and later picked up.
what comes out of you?
everyone depends.
Needed what I never got --

got what no one should have --

now I yearn for what no one should,

and it hurts like
a dog tethered in the yard
barking its fool head off

and no one is coming home
TW: eating disorder*




I am walking underwater.
The food I will not let myself eat
falls into the garbage disposal with the thud of voided misuse
a rising steam of self-hatred
as my mouth hangs open
hungry,
waiting for endorphins that never come
and self-denial still does not
meet my confessional act of contrite penance
it still feels like a sin
to eat
or not to eat
and there is no pleasure in gluttony
or in fast.
sage Mar 1
years ago, when i would climb fully clothed into a dry bathtub to cry, i would think about atoms.
my own, specifically. though whether any of them are still mine, i do not know.
the atoms making my bones, my liver, my lungs, are older than stars.
what were they before me?
that's not the question that scared me. what scared me, scares me still, is if i am made of anyone else. and if they should despise what they had become.

but at the end of history, for it has finally come, it seems silly.
who cares what i am made of?
the world is full of death and fire and shoes with separate toes.
why waste the time to care about the history of my skin?
and while this voice who belongs to nobody makes an excellent point, and i am aware of my ridiculousness as it pours down my face, i cannot shake it.
our minds have not evolved to fit the whole world. i cannot visualise it.
the great, stomping, climate-change godzilla is transient. he phases through the walls of my brain like a ghost, chains scraping along the floor as he goes.
but he finds me, as he leaves me, alone with myself.

and that, i can never run from.

i can cut my hair off with fabric scissors in the middle of the night. i can fill my empty hours with meaningless, instant content i forget as soon as it ends. i can move houses, cities, entire continents. but in blasted spite of every effort, it's still me.
of course i preoccupy myself. it's the one thing from which i shall never escape.

there is no way to trace my body backwards through time. that i know.
i will be myself for the rest of my life. that i also know.
planet earth may not outlive me. makes a trinity of knowledge i have.

so where do i go? stuck inside a body who feels like a stranger, hurtling ever forwards on an increasingly broken world.
i would love someone to come to me, preferably accompanied with a cloud of smoke and ****** of crows, and give me the secret of a life that never feels like static.
but that's only because I'm waiting for a quest that won't come.

no, the solution is far less fantastical, far less the stuff of poetry.
i have to learn to like myself. to know them, trust them, to build a foundation stronger than anything i can break it with.
and though i have already started, i am nowhere near finished. maybe i never will be.
but that is a fear i am letting go of, finger by finger, releasing my grip on.
eventually the wind can sweep it away, and i can forget.
hehe idk
Parker Vance Feb 13
Midday and the whisper of a chill rode the end of the breeze.
****** feet and a restless tongue; You never knew how to hurt me.
I didn’t know much about human anatomy but I could read charts
of the spine, heart, ribs, where are the unconventional entrances.
I decided on the space between the third and the fourth rib.
Dug in as hard as I could.
Tommy Randell Jan 27
This poem is a film
About how I see myself
At an age when the body
Is no longer young -
A dormant face, hanging
And flapping like wet washing,
In a backyard which
Gets little wind
But plenty of attention
From the Pigeons.

Paint me as I am, warts and all,
Tall and visible against a wall.


This poem is an old tool box,
Neglected and cobwebbed,
Whose contents have blunted
Through inappropriate use -
Whose wood chisels
Have been chipped on stone,
Whose rusty wrenches
Have hammered home
A reluctant nail or two -
Metaphors for hate crimes almost.

Pose me in my glory days,
Show me you care, let me count the ways.


This poem is a painting
Abstract and vague -
With a blue Sun in a grey sky
Cloudy with ***** coloured stains,
Through a window without curtains
Against which a wire bed,
With no pillows or mattress,
Is a constant reminder
Of hurts that were done
And no one came to help.

Long ago I wrote with a stick in wet Sand -
See, now, how I weave gestures from my hand.


This poem is a dictionary -
An etymology
Of events linked by meaning,
In a chain of cruelties
Which make up the man,
The What & the When
Of who I am -
Of how the past can be used
As the perfect excuse, just as
Every Poet gets away with ******.

Judge me then for your judgement is justified -
I was born it seems with Guilty in my eyes.


This poem is a pool party
Held in some afterlife -
Where every bad joke
I've ever known is gathered
Together as bad taste punchlines,
With spite as the currency
Of casual conversation,
And bile is whispered
Over petit fours and Cocktailed Devils
Consumed, of course, without hesitation.

Life is a poem within a poem -
A shadow play, with no plot showing.


So, now, this poem becomes no more
Like the finished Me than my Crimes -
Over the years in lieu of flowers
I have offered humour
In difficult times -
Because that is my way,
Not to add up to much
In the scheme of things,
To present myself as a Ghost with a Pen,
A Man hobbled to his broken crutch.

Look, here, now as I press on this Page -
Are you something Better to hold my gaze?



Tommy Randell  --  1st January 2021
Eric Hesner Jan 17
Each dull wheeze
— half-glass-filling lungs, tarred —
records my moments
like reel-to-reel tape
And the heart is a quivering branch
If not a paperweight
Pinning will and testament to the
desk

That plastic wine “glass”
turned out
to be
glass after all
My woman throws me punches
with the gentle touch
— all the virility —
of a little, lonely, old man
feeding bread
to ducks
Then goes to work on the meat of her hand
with the glass
Damages the nerves in her thumb
   tussle ensues
My arms are covered in blood
That two-penny copper smell

sister’s fella has anger issues
and wants a straightener
Tells me I need a job —
Is this not work?
If I had Molly’s blessing
I’d go to work on this *******
But she’s crying
And begs me not to
Begs him to calm down
I wanted to widow her
Her
And my bleeding wife
sylvia Jan 17
i'm always bleeding
last night i was in bed
waiting for a text
that will probably never come
and my mouth was filling with blood
over and over
it was all i could taste
i couldn't remember biting
i have sores in my mouth
from nervous chewing
but they weren't as bad as usual
but suddenly my mouth was bleeding
and i keep doing this
and i don't know why
and my psychiatrist said
it's just
social anxiety
that's all it is
she told me
i don't think you're psychotic
i can't remember
a couple months ago
i had bruises on my arms
i couldn't remember
my mouth kept filling up with blood
my finger is bleeding
i bite my nails too much
i used an x-acto knife
there was something on my nail
i had to get it off
i had to dig it out
of my skin around my nail
it keeps bleeding
my hands are cold
so i hold them together
and i keep unfolding my hands
to find blood on my palms
he doesn't care about
the scars on my thighs
and my stomach
i've always been terrified
that whoever i was with
would see the scars
and think i was crazy
unstable and not worth the chaos
i feel guilty
i feel bad for my roommate
she shouldn't have to
live with someone
with all these issues
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