We put gas in our tanks and pretend
all our claws are clean and pick at the bones
and the guts and we’re not satiated.

We give our souls and smiles and bodies and ****,
we’re not gifts or garbage, we’re human slot machines.

We are sterile in our thoughts,
and septic everywhere else
in a fashion that’s tasteless,
yet not obscene.

Donate clothes to the poor through
homophobic institutions because
what else can we really do?

Powerless, and yet so convinced we’re going to
fight the bureaucracy some day, and **** yeah
spell check writes half of my good **** nowadays.
I navigate online dictionaries seldom and cowardly.

Most of my writing is anti-revolutionary in the sense
that I hate what I desire intellectually and sincerely
but only because I want it so ******* bad,
and in the end I’m powerless
and empty and distant.