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And how? And now it’s all about dumb-cum
sex, filth, onan, sad pussies and big old
balls in our poems. In the best poem.
Why else write it? Why else read it? I’m told
someone out there’s getting laid, but not us.
Not us poets. It’s hunger, not food, we
require. As Anne Sexton is my witness;
this is our own ballad of us lonely
masturbators. Outlaws know this hunger
like how the well-fed knows despair. Outlaws
love this searching, like a sleepless dreamer
or like a priest without a god. Because
who is devout enough to keep searching
for such an unobtainable longing?
memories of my ghost sista 