Compartmentalizing strange is
a young man’s game.

There’s no comfort in
cliches this effing
close to middle age.

You can gargle
saltwater to
the sound of a thousand faults,
brushing teeth with asphalt paste;
she don’t ever want to taste
your breath again.

You get thinking about
the men you wanted to be
but all turned out frauds and pill-pushers,
butchers prematurely flaunting cleavers.

And she was a fever,
she was infectious; contaminated breakfasts
after one-night stands
that turned
into seconds and deja
vu thirds I still can’t promise
ever meant more than the first.

You think about the group scenes,
threesomes of
relief that
could have
with been you; monogamy with a
few more added,
turnpikes at pleasure’s

Leader of the
that got away,
bare skin magic, mattress of
a thousand outlines-

want to bet she feels the same?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s