i had a dream
i started a lucrative
business writing
suicide notes for
those who could
never find the
right words
everything was
going great until
my shrink asked
me if i was simply
avoiding writing
my own note
the dream started
to fade from there
and i asked myself
what ever happened
to the dreams about
the beautiful women
i woke up laughing
that fucking shrink
doesn’t know i wrote
my note years ago
just waiting for it
to get published
1. You Called Me Beautiful First.
We always flirted, and you said God had picked this friendship, me, for you.
If that’s not seduction, I don’t know what else it would be you did to me.
It’s insane how much we flirted in Bible college,
And I should have sucked your cock instead of Shane’s.
You always talked about showing me God’s love, but I wanted yours.
I dreamed for months of your love squirting hot wet into my mouth, and laying with you in the secret sweat that could’ve cost us everything.
But now your dumbass has a wife and nasty little crotch goblin.
And I’m sure Shane is still somewhere lying to himself, and luring in more secret sexual conquests to fulfill his need while trying not to blow his cover as a filthy religious heterosexual zealot.
Things could have been different if we had just quit pretending and stopped lying to god and ourselves.
Thanks for nothing.
2. Dust in the Hull of a Ship.
Dusty left a violence in my heart I can’t scrub.
There’s no way to mop away his soot and pretend that friendship didn’t fuck me up.
The “Belief Lovers” cling to their holy books in their boats and spit onto those below them,
And being better than others is such an isolating lowly place I don’t understand how they mistake heaven for the hell they live in inside their hearts.
I am holy, and beautiful, created in God’s image,
Even when I’m tripping acid slurping on dick after dick and shoving my cock in some cum thirsty twinks for hours.
God is now dead and if we need miracles we have to be our own saints.
3. Fuck God
I killed god and I’d do it again.
I fucked his lifeless body and swallowed all his cum.
I sit on his throne and masturbate on all his children.
I’ve burned all his books and given myself tattoos with all the ashes.
I am heaven now and when you die you enter my orgasm.
Don’t try to save me because at this point you should worry more about your own salvation.
You’re a hypocrite, no one will love your homophobic little black heart, and you will never know god.
Be cursed for all eternity and when you are cold in the dirt I’ll have a little orgy and give myself a golden shower on your grave.
Tim.
Sat on a bench on the edge of a lawn,
nursing lemonade with gin,
toying with memory’s engine.
Why is yes minus es. Memory of
an echo echoes in the memory.
Swallows desolate the colonnade.
A distant couple’s berating passes out of hearing.
Little boys in the shadows
spit machineguns.
A bat slices the air,
reverberating in the ear.
Stars not yet there
in the purple poise. The gears,
the worms, the shifts, the buttons
down the suit disappear. This early fall
early evening suits itself, leaves
blowing across the lawn
like leaves
blowing across the lawn,
the soul the sole remains.
I stay up late,
covers pulled to double chin.
My cat is curled like a waxing moon
against operated spine.
I’m scrolling through tips
for deep throating from my fellow gays.
I brush the back of my tongue
every night for a week,
gagging Tom’s toothpaste
all over the sink.
I ignore advice to practice with a banana—
the tip too rough and dirty for my liking.
Just call me confidence
as I grab your dick with both hands,
swallow that joystick in three big gulps,
vomiting all over your freshly
laundered sheets.
Cigarette smoke hazing over your face, Clove.
Sex smell because of you—sheets wet all over.
I remember our first time together:
“I never knew about that,” I said.
You pushed my face between your legs.
Sweet, the taste of you, no longer a cliche.
You held me in your hand, slow and loose.
Then fast until I came all over your stomach.
You looked down, slid your finger through it,
brought it to your lips. Then kissed me.
“I’m just going a little longer,” you said,
rolling over, fingers tracing circles
between your legs.
I laid next to you and watched.
Then, startling me, you sat up
and straddle my face.
“Let me see those bastard eyes,” you moaned.
And came, covering my face, wet.
“Give me your tongue.”
And you pressed yourself against it.
“You’re such a good boy,” you said
as you grabbed my hair and brought
me harder against you.
“Taste all of me. I want you to have it all.”
You pushed my head away by my hair:
a hot, hard stream hit my face,
and I couldn’t help but open my mouth,
just a bit, and swallow.
with one final squeeze
she pushes me and
all my cum out of her
and lays on top of me;
everything drips down my leg.
the sun burns through
the turning autumn leaves
my dirty window
my cat litter bedsheets
my heart.
everything upon this bed dries up:
time, love, cum; only cat litter remains.
i leave her to pick my kids up from school.
after dinner they’ll slip into dreamland.
and soon i’ll stand before my bed,
contemplate changing the sheets,
forget it, lay down, and go to sleep.
It is infuriating
how the fear of death
makes you so pathetic.
How you suddenly like life,
enjoy sadness,
regret the wasted days.
The peculiar thing is,
as they say,
that when you lose something
you understand
how important it was,
but when having a near death experience
you haven’t lost anything,
not yet
but the mere possibility
of losing
this life you have
this unimportant little life
with these few romances
the bromide blood ties
the ideas and contemplation
the fun and the years
and the mistakes
and the small acts of kindness
and the small efforts of creativity
it all coruscates
into a total
that in your mind
is so beautiful
that besides feeling
incredibly ungrateful
you also feel irritated
by the cowardice
you are washed in
precisely because of the beauty
precisely because you are not ready
to leave
not until you grow old
and the quality in your life
lessens enough
for you to become proud enough
to be ready enough to go.
And you are hungry suddenly
to live, to try
to climb towards the goals
and you don’t care as much
about the relationships
that went bad,
about your dissatisfying paychecks
or your appearance
and you almost pray
for another shot
and all the stupid sadness you had
appears so wasteful
like a meal run cold
over an argument.
Care less or care more?
I want you to chain me
to the bed like a cross
fallen sideways.
Wind blew hard, lips pursed,
knocked Christ right over.
That tongue better start
singing hymns to my skin.
Wrap your beads around
my wrists until blood
draws in sacrifice.
Reach hands up
high in worship.
This holy water
we blessed fogs
every window.
Service only lasts
an hour before
we break bread.
Love opens the door inside the dream
we call today. In eases Death.
I sit the freak on the sofa.
Slip into the kitchen to fix drinks.
Hear Love invite our guest to leave.
Death mumbles something I can’t make out
above the seltzer fizz and the cubes clinking.
When to the living room I return,
hand each a cold sweaty glass,
Love stands at the window,
watching a cloud eat the sun.
Death, on a cushion slouching, accepts the mix
of bitters, lime, soda, spirits. Grins into my face
he hopes Love and I are well enough making out?
Opening the door to tongues tangling
anxious poetry; fingertips brushing breasts;
never closer to meet. And it’s me at the window,
watching both guests dissolve in a squall of hail,
ticking at the glass its tiny watches,
making the world out to be cold and intimate –
alone and alive as a thought
seeking in a picture to hide.
