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Recently, Sanguine moved far away from jan Wen. We spent a weekend together knowing it would be the last in many months. We wrote these poems together in bed.
"chase the sunset West"
was once written here
but it's night now.
touch the unlit letters
and ask yourself this:
by what slight of hand
will we make our time count?
we can't imagine the end
of a firefly's flight.
they're born somewhere, die somewher e else,
but that's mere geography.
a brief glimmer in the night, forever.
I will always miss you.
I found a cool sword in a ditch
still warm, barely resting.
I was thinking of where to hide it from mom,
my other secrets going merely unmentioned,
when Galahad came down the way.
stupid, Sexy, Gallahad, that Welsh fuck,
who will never be my real dad.
i only have sexy fathers
in my secret ditch-sword club
fuck poetry its for god and im not god i jerk off in forests and find swords and regret my father
A heron, speckled, mourning
a sword, discarded, ditch-living
a forced vow to suck every dick I see which I fear must end in blindness
i carved your dick inside my eyelids
using an incredible specialized tool
fin