I'm ****** at this.

I skipped class yesterday
and today and haven't seen

you in a few days because you
won't let me and that's valid.
I still wish I could help some

how I think of leaving you at
least once every day but
all I can think to say is
I love you and I'm yours.

My stroke of love
goes against your grain
and I am bade to withhold
in the presence of equals and
betters regardless of the claim

And the needs being
met with knees in the chest

I am uneasy.

Does the girl even
matter, or is everything
a matter of time

A body wants some
body, some more than others
And some none at all

Again the train makes
a standard stop at what
the **** am I doing

So I get off.

Dinshaw argues that
the text is feminine and
the writer masculine but what
does that have to do with anything?

Good lord, the frilly words make
crochet lace and the others
make the rest-- now doesn't
that make sense: a scent
of cents means money!

The sign of the signified says: Why
the **** is this happening? You read
into me and translate accordingly but
can't seem to interpret a bit of it like the
first poem in Zong, but I'm not sure if you'll
remember what that quite looks like

You reading rather feminine lace
together an image of Mulcahy from
the Coombe that's not a bit like the
man! With a laugh who could
blame a drunken thought?

All the stupid girly **** gets dealt
with in a familiar manner stripped
bare teeth tearing the cloth in the process
of progressing to **** it like the little
**** it is: exactly how it deserves

Your moon princess turns
into folklore where nothing
is left but an ancient language
written in a mother tongue
in languish whilst unspoken.

You read languidly like
sparknotes slow speed reading
some well known notion readily

Of me standing stark naked
--out of clothes-- at a
random station

There is a violence in translation.

Would you want
to know or seize?
Are you able to

see which arms belong
to me and—can cling
to love undeserved—
in the meantime

I grow tired and sleepy
from forgiving you, so you
let me be your blanket, with
my head in the crevice of your
neck, and tuck yourself in with me

You say things like:
"Caw caw!" and "llamo"
with a hard L

As a statement
you ask: "You my baby?"
Despite the holes in my body

Our shared presence a chaotic
good and I, beside myself, at your
"We love each other, don't we?"

Two generations
removed from
the Good

But Good
is not the point
of poetry