ANGELS LOVE U THEN THEY GO.
so I just say “boi, boi I want rug burns and fuck sores, I want you to do something to my face, I want bruises and handprints on my thighs, hey pretty boi, hey.”
and he says “I’ll hit you up.”
anymore the way people want to have sex but just on the surface and get up and cover up the object and return it to its place without any repercussion except the smallest expenditure where energy is lost and a little bit gathered up and maybe you get sleepy and relaxed
already we have virtual sex
what is this then we realized god was not coming and the night stretches on and on
and ecstasy is beyond us because we refuse the attendant emotion the tears and vulnerability- the tearing apart the tears and the tearing apart
let’s take it back. from its pretending at liberation, from sex in a void where nothing matters, momentary scratching at the surface, pleasure that passes and falls off, something wasteful
less significant than shitting
I want it back
so I say “hey I just painted my fingernails red, why don’t you come over and fuck me before I go…”
hey boi, we not your momma, we not your girl, we not your mamma girl
boi, let me turn you into every animal, all at once, dog, deer, owl, cat, fight fight fight me boi, fight me right up to the line and then beyond it where we can taste eachother sliding apart, stick your tongue in my asshole boi and let go my name.
let go my name, forget the story, forget the story
anointed with your grief
all flesh amid relics of sex so I tell you that there was a song in my body and you let it out- do you care
no one cares/ care is weak and makes us weak and in the dangerous void left in its place we have sex that is virtual
hey pretty boi I just want you to come sleep over and wake up sober and keep your dick hard and stick it up my ass and hold my tits and ride me while you bite my neck and shoulders
let me write you nasty poems
but first you gotta give me something to write about
you gotta come over and fuck me sober
with your dick hard
I don’t know names for this anymore
“I’ll hit you up”
what the fuck. where is this place?
that we go to
a twilight spell. an onerous livingroom
let me write you dirty love songs- let me teach you how to fuck
ya’ll think you know already and its cool but you don’t.
you just don’t
and I not sure why
I cannot say
is it some millennial shit where you are afraid of your body- weird
ok, I start over and just forget I said that.
I won’t bother you
Everything is vaporous now
now when it comes to touch and to bodies and to fucking and getting fucked
it barely goes inside.
it barely breaks the surface
just a mostly vaporous thing
this might be why I don’t care
why you won’t love and why love won’t love
because its fog
it’s the fog that pours out of the freezer
its not even atmospheric
its synthetic and it belongs inside a room with fluorescent light and chemical smells
its freezer fog and it dissipates and there is nothing there.
its an empty room
did I say that
that it is an empty room
it is an empty room