I’m thinking about you and I don’t even know who you are.
I’m thinking about you and I don’t even have a hard on because this isn’t sexual or cerebral, it just is.
We "skip the light fandango," simply because we have nothing better to do and that’s alright because sometimes you need to do something before you go crazy from the nothingness weighing you down like a skyscraper or guilty conscience.
I’m thinking about you because it beats thinking about all the bad shit going on in the news and how none of us are safe and nobody seems to have a fucking clue.
I’m thinking about you because it beats beating off and going nowhere fast as semen covers my hands leaving me even emptier than I was before the sunset.
I’m thinking of you, but I won’t call because I don’t want to get into the habit of habitually craving you.
You were lying in bed just about to fall asleep when the lines came to you like a body needing to be unburied.
I have found myself in a similar situation. Fighting the urge to ignore the poetry, but knowing it doesn’t work like that because when inspiration calls you best rise from your coffin and capture the words before they give up on you.
I’m thinking about you in the dark scribbling down the lines as they crawl out of your black raspberry sorbet eye sockets like perverse maggots hungering for papyrus and Glitter-Witch flesh, leaving me even more craven and desperate than I was before starting this poem.