A Good Fuck

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Smoke exhaling from your nose
You flick your cigarette ashes down on the old concrete
Unaware of the people, the cars, the clouds, the loud orbit surrounding you
Your golden watch jingles as you plant the cigarette
Between your bruised cherry lips

All I do is stop and stare
These brown pupils expand in awe with everlasting need
Wanting to divulge under you, inside of you
In these lousy twenty years, I realized that the best paradise
Is the body, the breath, the scent of a stranger

Nothing matters
I long for nothing else
But for you to look up at me

I study your tan arms, look between the hairs on your skin
To find bulging veins and black ink
Your torso rising proudly at the sky

I want it all
For you to expose yourself to me
Hands to hold my hips
Your cigarette to reach my lips
You to entomb yourself into me
Our mortal bodies interlocking into one
You to destroy me in every beautiful way

And you do it,
You look up; honey-brown eyes engage
Some days, a good fuck is all you need.

- SuedeExpression

Two Dreams & 2 Real Things

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You’re at a cafe studying with your friends. I see you from outside and decide to come over and surprise you. Crawling on the floor like Orwell in Catalonia, I hover in secret, the cold ground laden with coffee stains unknown to me. I’m inches from your table when you spot and begin yelling unintelligible things at me. You’ve never been mad at me like this. You ask why I’m here, what I want from you, etc, etc. Everyone at the cafe is staring at us. I stammer a baloney answer about just wanting to see you and that’s all. I resume to give your friend $5 that I owed her for who knows what. You’re still yelling. Then your roommate intervenes. The yelling stops. Everything stops. A hush. A narrow lull. A sea of clocks on phones stall. She turns to me and very sternly tells me that I have to stop doing this to myself. And that’s it.

Before that, I’m at the doctor’s office. The nurse comes to collect me and leads me down a comically long hallway. She settles me in a room and seats me on a crunchy, disposable piece of paper atop a bed. She mumbles things at me, and proceeds to wrap something around my arm. I drift away thinking of you, not any specific thing, be it your hair, or the variations of smiles you’d toss for me to catch depending on the circumstance, or even the infuriating manner in which you grab my laptop screen, just really the General-All-Of-It. The nurse interrupts my flirting with the General-All-Of-It by asking me if my blood pressure is normally this high. I laugh and say, “No of course not.” “Well it shouldn’t be this high for someone your age. Let me take it again.” So she does and this time, either consciously or not I slip you out of the backroom of my thoughts and focus on my dogs. And, woah differences. A full 7 point drop.

Then, we’re in a conference room. The entire room is dark, save for the light source being emitted from the projector. Nothing is on screen. For some reason, I’m helping you rewrite a paper. You’re sitting atop the table at the edge of it, staring down at me in the chair next to you. I’m directing you as to how to possibly fix this sentence, restructure that paragraph, reconsider this core argument. You keep cracking jokes and interrupting me. I try to steady your attention and you joke about how seriously I seem to be taking all of this. You lean in close to me. Staring at me, resting your head on your heads. I don’t look up at you. For some reason I’m talking about Roberto Bolano and Gabriel Orozco even though your paper has nothing to do with that but you’re not listening anyway. You’re just staring & nodding. Finally, I catch you and shut up. We lean into each other. Our lips brush past one another like strangers on the sidewalk whose trajectory keeps re-igniting itself. They meet somewhere in the middle and decide to stop avoiding each other. You draw away, your eyes still closed. You’re shaking.

And even before all this has happened, an older man tells me how there are only two kinds of women in this world: the kind you write poetry about and the kind you don’t. Since then, every medium available to me, every form I dare to assume to have something considered power over, has failed to provide due representation of even the General-All-Of-It. All except one.

Very simply put Girl Scout, you’re the type whole anthologies are written for.

10 year old mutt

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All that barking you would think you were being abused. Thinking your owners didn’t treat you right but I know that’s not true. They have lived next door to me since I was a little kid and so have you. Everyday I see Jan come out and feed you, and then I see Frank taking you on walks but it never seems to be enough for you.

What’s got you all riled up dog? The constant need to be heard and frightened for no reason at all.

Aren’t you worried you’ll lose your voice? Suddenly your throat will just give out from all of that loud ruckus and you won’t even be able to moan.

What will become of you then?
Would it kill you to be calm and collected for one day so I can get some peace?

There is nothing out there to harm us in this neighborhood, and even if there was you would never harm a soul; we all know you Charlie. You’ve got a hell of a bark, but what’s a bark without the bite?

Menmaatre Seti

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Who made you?

Who cloaked your flesh in stained coffee gravel?

Who pieced your squinted monolid eyes apart

bridged by nose and brow?

Who splashed tiny suntanned freckles

against your cheekbone?

Who molded your lips,

two honey tinted poets

engrossed softly together,

embraced by words

recited smoothly like a kiss?

Who gave you that smile

etched finely upon your face,

like the sun peeking below the clouds

and smog before it sets?

Who took the time the chisel muscle

finely beneath your flesh?

Who sculpted your face

to be the exact replica of the Pharaoh Ramses?

Who tooled your calves

and carved the simplest arches

and docile dimples hidden mildly

against your flesh?

Who made you into a man?

One Week Later

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Some plastic essence,
demolishes day’s facticity.

The rest, as they say, is history,
a cold, cold history of doubt and regret.
The solid fists of the sun repress
an anesthetic rain
over a land stung with drought.

Meanwhile, I’m feeding
on paradoxes boxed in a shouting
match and still growing hungrier,

now lunging toward
a patchwork blockade with a flame
in my palm. All sense of calm is quelled
in the haze, swept away
in a thick river of violence
and dumped on a lonely shore.

I’ve waltzed with my share
of cloudbursts, and at worst,
they were dreadfully slow,
and left me fixing to flow in the heat.

But then what? Crutches,
agony, and blistered feet.

Now, so it seems, my incurable
tunnel vision has left me dumb,
depraved, and I no longer care
if the light at the end is the light
of day or the light of an oncoming train.

This is a fumbled verse preceding
a desperate refrain,
a canvas framed with nothing to show.

-r. miller

The Dirtiest of Words

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An accidental collaborative poem written entirely in text messages
between Wandering Savage and Holden Lyric.

Happiness, just take a seat.
I promise to keep you entertained.

Oh happiness if only you knew how
great I’d be at giving you a lap dance.
You’d stay seated longer.

Happiness, if only you saw the way my pupils
dance when you fill the room. Your holy
hallowed presence makes me whole.

Happiness, I wish you’d look at me with that
fragile, elegant smile coupled with that oh-so-perfectly
timed semi-rehearsed hair toss you used to throw at me by
the lunch tables.

Happiness, name your price. I’ll pay cash I’ll pay an arm and
a leg, an artery, a heart—name that tune sing me to sleep keep me
warm keep me sane keep my feet light put a skip in my step give
me a method to all of the madness.

Happiness, don’t tell me to keep waiting for days we both know you
have jumped the carpool lane into the off-ramp of yesterday.

And now you’re just a blip in my rearview mirror the asshole in my
peripheral vision has his brights on I can’t see you driving there I can’t
see you with both hands on the wheel I can’t hear your stereo I can’t smell
your cigarette smoke why don’t you ever come find me? Why don’t you
know how to linger?

Happiness, there may be no proper way to end this. All of this. Not this
meta-dedication and personalization of you. Not till you’re mine. In my arms,
your hair resting on my chest, Bon Iver in the background.

Then, maybe then…

On the Prospects of Letting Go

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Little Things. Start there. Form your blockade with the tiniest lego pieces you can find in your vicinity and run from there.
Begin with the least obstructive of them. A tap here. One less follower for us both.
You won’t hit all the windows all at once. You’ll spare yourself the work of finishing this blockade all at once. You’ll put it off. Just in case.

That’ll be about the dumbest fucking thing you can do.

You’ll promise not to cave in. Not to peek. And you’ll stick to it.

Some of the work will be done for you. She’ll disappear in to the shadow trenches and form her own blockade against you. You’ll wonder why for a moment.

Aren’t you supposed to be the one digging into the Helm’s Deep of your landscape for the inevitable blowback?

You’ll wonder how much her feelings resemble yours. If she can’t bear looking back either. You won’t speculate for too long though.

The wall will continue assembling itself gradually.

One time you’ll be waiting for the doctor to come back with and with no distractions around it’ll dawn on you to sever the chord to her friends.

Another time you’ll take a peek, just a casual glance. You’ll regret it instantly.

And for a moment it’ll appear that no thundering engine through a foggy night with Bono in the front seat and Kanye in the back will make things better.

You won’t be able to unsee it. No matter how fast you drive down that familiar, moss laden highway of yours.

A thick black curtain will be drawn across the rear windows. It will be bolted into the wall with liquid cement.

You’ll make sure voyeurism is forever out of range.

Raise an army. Build your wall.

Where They might never find you again.
Where Judgement is broadest conspiracy of all.
Where she exists forever outside the present for you.

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