No, really.
I was in Paris, once,
just a few days.
I didn’t do all the
touristy shit;
the Arc du Triomph,
the Eiffel Tower,
the Louvre.
–
Instead, I went down
to Pigalle, where the
streets are a litany
of porno shops.
I bought myself
a vibrator
and
some lube.
–
Then went back to
my closet of
an apartment
and had a
good fuck
on the
lice
ridden
bed.
If you’re not thinking
about the next verse,
constructing it in your head
while you take a
shit,
I’m not sure you
can call yourself
a poet.
I lift my face skyward so the rain can wash over me, kissing my brow, soothing the delicate flesh beneath my eyes, caressing my weary mouth. And for a moment, as fleeting as a heartbeat I feel perfect in my brokenness.
We bit into the tender,
pink flesh
of some exotic fruit.
Its thin, sweet juice dripping
from our
lips, and I wondered
what it would be like
if he
bit into me like that.
I shit my pants once - now, hear me out: I was eating Chinese, a greasy eggroll, so greasy I made a comment out loud about it. Against my better judgement I ate the thing anyway. Hours later, I left work not thinking about that fucking eggroll. I gambled and lost, as they say, and I began laughing hysterically because what else can you do with your pants full of shit and a 15 minute ride home?
Soft covered notebooks
are the best for
writing poetry in.
They bend under the
weight of your words,
like hands folded in prayer.
"Oh, thank you God!" I breathed with deep gratitude and reverence. There were two cigarettes left in the pack instead of one.
If you’re reading this,
and
you think it’s about you.
It probably is.
Don't come to me for advice on how to be a better poet. Have the courage to live your life, then write honestly about it. (Also, learn the mechanics of writing. God damn.)
There is something unsettling about rehashing our past relationship - all its heartbreaks and mistakes - while you take a piss on a tree . I have a feeling the tree and I share similar sentiments.
Poems that Suck 