, ,

A broken guitar,
A sluggish fan.

Hitchens’ theology lessons

And poems that don’t buy bread.

A thousand strings,

I took years to master.

Dragon whispers,

Sonnets for death camps.

The sluggish fan,

Blowing hot air.

Wonder what came first,

The sun or the melanin?

Christopher Hitchens,

Climbs up my subconscious.

His reasoning, supportive,

Behind mine like gay sex.

I pen yet another poem

And feel even more hungry.

I treat myself to a few likes,

My mouth tastes bluish.

Kiss me at your peril.


That bandana is totally fake. I bought it for like a dollar. I think I should use it to wipe my shoes.