PDF

Tired After Looking for my Voice Recorder for an Hour


by XXXX


I wrote a million lines of poetry last night.
Metaphor after metaphor of your beauty
and a can of oil, a ray of sunlight,
the fallen branch of a tree, black coffee,
eviscerated pigs at the wet market,
hanging by their skulls, in a perpetual state
of wonder. 

None of them were any good. I may be
running out of things to say, about you,
about what I feel about you, about
the way I am murdering myself
because of it all, like smothering myself
with a pillow, swallowing shards of glass. 

All my friends think I am going crazy, 
that I am a fool. I know I am already. 
I have a card in my wallet that certifies it. 
It says: “Incorrigible fool. Stupid queer.
Ass-brained, foul-mouthed cocksucker.”
Endcap