I was six years old.
He was a German Shepherd named Andy.

crushes and snorts several thousand milligrams of sildenafil on a nsfw livestream and masturbates until his heart explodes

the sexiest quality in a partner was the ability to space out

where Mother had hung on the wall
our Hogarth prints and crucifix

I had started doing aerobics and running in place in our townhouse living room when Chad was at the golf shop. I’d found a recipe for whole wheat banana bread and I made a loaf every Sunday and every

after Charles Bukowski

Every orgasm I am not having is a poem in process.

The body rotates its symbols / like a stereoscope

I’m flinging sparks at a desk 
in the cold cell of civilization’s midnight 
 

I'm sick...

I am torn with longing for many unnameable things.

there was nothing special in the Library of Alexandria

It does not make any noise but it works.

I fucked his heart, ruined the fitted sheets,
flamingos left erect in a pool of afternoons

other byproducts are produced
sticky sweat, the stink of loneliness

But there's no blood
It's all gone, I'm dry

Do you ever get mad
and want to 
hit something?

a howl of anguish and a bolt from the, a bruise, and yes, even lurid strangulation on the— 

why it’s positively gothic darling, really!

Why can’t time be both? History repeating 

Itself but making progress too?

Now there is a skeleton outside my window. And skeletons on all the dating app profiles.

This marriage project
What a blast

The face in my mirror keeps getting older –
Into the face of the man who beat me

Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.

Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.

i don’t think there will be booze
for sale, the style writer says, 
because it’s a synagogue