Poetry vs.
She wanted to talk about my poem,
whether it worked with symbols
or something subtler. I mouthed
some inanity about what metaphor
means to me. How could I say,
instead, that I wanted to see her
naked, her blond limbs, her glossy
thighs. We talked a little bit more
about the poem. “It’s not often I
get to ask the actual author,” she
gushed. I didn’t feel actual. I felt
like a shitheel. But, reader, listen.
Her eyes were like the blue the sky
unveils only in early morning. And,
up close, she seemed to be made of
cake. I went home and she went home.
I tried to write new poems. She found
herself thinking about fucking and
called to her husband in the next room.
Horror Sleaze Trash 