good thing I’ve found a new boy to feel obsessed with, because I’ve lost a couple with the closing of summer and I’ve got a chapbook to finish. and despite all my grandiose articulations, my claims of ceaseless aesthetic commitment, everybody knows that nothing gets me more prolific than the thought of my cheek against a chest tattoo, my tongue pushing against crooked teeth. These are some recurring themes, along with bad habits and good songs and the kind of hearts that push and pulse and stay up until dawn reading poetry.
I guess all I’m ever doing is drawing out a map of the ever-sinking ever-rising bubble of blood in my chest—I lust, I weep, I sing, I sleep, I want I want I want I try—and its fear, its fascination with its own collapse, all its sticky little tendrils seeking out a world to hold.
But imagine: if every time I wrote something, it meant someone I want to put my hands all over sitting across from me at the bar, reading, spilling his beer with excitement while I turn into a giant grin and two bitten, smiling lips.