Squalor of My Self

(May, 2013)

Sitting hunched over his typewriter one day,
Charles looked me dead in the soul and asked me
how he was supposed to explain you
to them.
Chuckie boy, I said,
leaning over,
trying to entice him with my not-tits,
I just don’t know.

He ignored my advances so
I climbed up onto his shoulders
to write this poem.

Imagine for yourself, this:
Twenty-eight years of
too much feeling
and sickness
and being lonely.
So goddamned lonely.
No amount of friendship or cum will
alleviate it
and you wouldn’t know Healthy if it
slapped you right in the face
(and you know this because
it has.)

No.
I will die in this squalor of my Self
and there’s nothing God or Science or Love
or anyone else can do about it.
The only time I feel worth the poisoned air
circulating around my lungs is when
I am writing this
self indulgent shit so
there you have it.

There’s one explanation,
anyway.

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