Whiskeydrunk sex and Jesus Christ.

She turns to me slowly, those eyes locked in a dead stare. I need this, I want this and she does too. This is a declaration of affection, the feverish grasp of youthful abandonment. With a final methodical gaze at her face I kiss her, using my thumb and forefinger to hold her soft chin and hollow cheek in place. We sit in a room full of those we know. The host left twenty minutes ago and everyone is fighting over the last bits of sanity. She and I rise.

Without deliberation we sneak into a guest bedroom, the lights are on and the bed is small. We stand, kissing, embraced and locked in a moment of pure light. I need this, I want this and she's begging for it. The pink rush runs through my body like a strong drink, quickly erasing the traces of trepidation that may have remained. A disruption, an occurrence, a change of scenery.

A guitar case with a Jesus sticker. A twin bed with a white bar frame. Knowing the blocking for this scene I unbutton my shirt, she her pants. Soon following the script, we breathe frantic and interrupted in a whirlwind of clothes and flesh. She always hated that word. The lights went off, she was nude, I with a shirt on, slowly removing it, without a sense of direction in the blackened room. I flip the lights on once more, for footing.

I see her body, Christ she is beautiful. Her legs lay crossed, skin smooth and even. Her breasts sit, supported somewhat by her left arm, which holds up her head. I look down at myself, my stomach hangs over the elastic band of my underwear. My skin looks tired and riddled with moles and red spots.

I turn the lights off again and climb onto the bed. We kiss again, deep and passionate, her skin brushing the disgusting hair sprouting on my chest. Without any real preparation I enter her and she moans, I exhale deeply in agreement.

This condom is made of tar, I swear.

The drinks begin to spin my head.

I kiss her continually, hoping that something would redeem this slowly fading encounter. Her breath brushes against my left ear.

Nothing.

I pull out. I needed this, I wanted this, and like times before I let her down. After it all there was nothing to be spoken of but a shaken boy trying to carve his name into the stone walls of sexuality. She seemed impressed that I got it up at all. My cigarette keeps a sense of reality, my ego continually kicking me where it counts.

This is manhood.

Something Silly

I’ve learned a lesson from making out with lesbians.
They’re not straight which makes them quite rough.
Envision a ridge on a tooth. They'll treat a
pair of testicles like they have nothing to lose.

mostly interpretation

darling you are no more than precrafted sounds
you are goo goo and gaa gaa two years later
limited by the latin alphabet and an online baby-name website.
you are about fourty years of vicarious living
tacked on to the end of your parents' lives
encompassed by speculation
about fifteen seconds prior to the exact moment of their deaths
finally settled in your perception
by a predetermined resolution to never be your mother
a hint of resentment,
and lung cancer thats been waiting for you
since you started smoking at the age of fifteen.
you speak in gobbledegook only
its the familiar sort.
your ideas are preestablished
a spinning wheel in your head, you find the feeling
that matches your situation and express it
in a string of harsh staccato noises.
everyone understands them,
with various interpretations.

somewhere there is a man writing in permanent marker
an absolutely unbiased account of the entirety of human history
with no room for interpretation.

feel absolutely uninhibited;
his wrist is frequently sore,
he's several thousand years behind
and has no time to account for
what's only perception.

Improper

I laid beside
a woman
who had no interest in my body
to have her touch my flesh
or for me to touch her's.

I laid beside
a lesbian
with soft blue eyes
short brown hair
and men's clothing.

I laid inside
my own addictions
a drink every day
a few drinks every day
a half a pack of cigarettes.

I laid inside
my body
folds of skin that ought not be there
patches of hair on my back
fat on my stomach
from a twenty-beer sunday.

Who is validated?
Who is truly happy?
The old.

The young must look
as though they don't realize
their bodies will deteriorate
eventually
anyway.