accident

I am

a sexual mess
& not in the good way

there’s no easy cure
no standard therapy

just confusion
in the wake
of crumpled duvets

intimacy echoing
like a bad joke
off the four walls
surrounding a single bed

I’m

only playing grown up
because Scrabble
requires more than
one person

this is the adult truth
they shield you from:
nothing makes sense
no matter how many

candles stab the cake
or
wrinkles map your face

stray blonde waifs
get away with it
find salvation
at the last minute

Hollywood happy
functioning for Freud

I
would say
fuck it
but the irony
would be
in bad taste

the sweetest sin

You pray that jesus will visit me,
and help me to save myself
from abomination


I laugh...

my bed covers are tossed like confetti
a naked woman lay asleep in my bed,
spent
empty beer bottles, an exhausted bag of weed
and a myriad of clothing
artistically adorn the room
like an interior designer
who makes their living
stuffing silk flowers
in "genuine" crystal vases

is there really enough of my
sex-starved body left for Him to pull
from the pool of indulgence?
what, with it being so overfed with sin
binging on the touch of a
woman's hand, fingers...
lips
and the sweet taste that lingers on my tongue...


breasts touch breasts
the shape of a heart
draws itself in the space separating
racing organ from
racing organ
blue veins, red arteries
bursting like over-ripened
strawberries at the mercy
of her fingertips

necks arching elegantly
from cotton clouds of
sweat and estrogen

we were both as beautiful
as Cleopatra when our eyes
met those opposite

ode to deodorant

under the arm[our]
delicate seething souls roam free
pungent and ripe
from a hollow pit
shouldering the weight of
guilt,
fear,
responsibility
bearing down
covered up
and dispassionate
yet you glide in smooth
strong enough for a man
but made for a woman