Browsing HistoryI really enjoy pornography, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. I think most people like porn, even the women (and sometimes men) who adamantly deny it. It's nature to want to see two (or more) other humans fornicating. Even chimpanzees like porn, according to a study I skimmed, but all I could really think about while I was reading is that some scientist had to film chimp porn to facilitate his experiment. That's pretty disgusting, but it does prove my point: pornography is objectively fantastic.
No matter what kind of mood I'm in when I sit down to masturbate, I tend to go for obscene porn: interracial and threesomes and sadomasochism and gangbangs and twins and really any combination of consenting adult men one can imagine. I don't do any of that stuff in real life. I'm a caucasian cisgendered homosexual man living in a New York suburb with my caucasian husband and two adopted daughters who are sisters-by-blood. I go to work every day, and I have been told by my husband's friends t
On Wanting Everything to Be RightYou got too comfortable,On Wanting Everything to Be Right1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
forgot he could make mistakes,
and set your consciousness aside
so he could mend the thoughts
which have remained disordered
in your fumbling sobriety,
despite the years of learning to cope
with the pace of regularity:
scraping the mailbox with his key,
dining out every Sunday,
setting the thermostat to sixty degrees,
and changing despite every effort
to remain apathetic about his plans,
how your name became a constant
in his living equations,
the variable which defined the function.
On the morning you leave,
only your luggage and body will move
through the summer shadows
of oak leaves shaking in a breeze,
and only your barest senses
will know the satisfaction of hearing
his footsteps behind yours,
cicadas composing another song,
a car door slamming shut,
the engine firing up,
though your muscle memory isn't enough
to bring you peace or independence,
money or place or dignity.
When you turn onto Justamere Road,
you'll picture the nightstand
on your side of the
To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady greyTo His Coy Mistress[es]2 years ago in Letters More Like This
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astringent, fine-boned cheeks seeking nothing less than perfection. your tiger soul knows your worth, seductive and mysterious; in the autumn, you remind me of leaves ripe with color, falling from my desperate touch: a distant lover.
you are the sun's daughter birthed by soil, a celestial soothing who blooms
novemberthe sun is a dim pearlnovember2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;
i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.
Alternate-Universe HiroshimaMy favorite sound is the way you say "I love you".Alternate-Universe Hiroshima2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I can feel a rainforest sprouting in my stomach with every syllable,
But your body when we're tangled in the sheets
Tells me better than words ever could.
I love most the heat and wet of your mouth;
I love your breath upon my skin,
Your lips dropping kisses on my shoulders like bombs on a city
– Bombs blossoming
Into flowers upon impact -
Flowers with petals bigger than my hands,
Hands that flit over yours like the shadows of leaves
Being shaken by the wind.
Hands that are yearning for yours,
a string drawn tautthere are so manya string drawn taut2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue stars in your skin
but i can't believe
each neuron is a universe
alight with planets,
gaunt aliens signing god
in the absence of your name,
dim cars on the street,
beneath an awning
like a glowing orange womb
you shudder saying,
i just had a chill,
is this room cold
or are we in the gut
of a giant
who's strung out
seven days lifeless,
biting the apple,
wishing for his mother,
the earth is spinning
in the eyes
of a turtle
with a red shell
who swims in the flowers
who swallows supernovas
and they pass through his kidneys,
we could burst any minute,
a fly's nerves twitch,
a city laid,
between microscope lenses,
clutching wife to child,
do you know my name?
do you know you're shivering?
do you know i'm the son
of your nucleus?
i live in your cheek
and die at your
VeilsIt began when we heard the screams coming from upstairsVeils2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gradually sounding more like grating chirps.
It bewildered us at first to witness mother shifting her shape
into that of a goldfinch. Yet, when we bought a gilded cage
for her I found myself missing her human form and decided
I needed a drink.
That night I ended up on a date with the moon.
She'd been sitting on the bar's rooftop sipping
a Gin Sling by herself, her star-colored hair mesmerizing
every eye in the place —I offered to join
and she said yes.
After a few more drinks I walked her to dawn,
and although the glow on the iron-nickel dress she wore
was visibly waning her celestial beauty remained
irresistible. When I moved in for the goodbye embrace
she warned me about the lunar curse turning men into
beasts, insisting she wasn't worth it.
Her lips left an argon-wasteland taste in my mouth
—the flavor of cosmic purity —while the orbital resonances from her
pressing body continued to pulsate in my chest like a
Why I Am HappyThe boy sitting on the park bench had eyes like sandpaper melancholy.Why I Am Happy3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I think I noticed because I am a poet. I don't think anyone else but a poet could look at his eyes and think, "sandpaper melancholy." But they were that color. A fair brown. And grainy. I liked them in the way I like bitter baking chocolate -- because it has an interesting flavor, not because it is sweet. Unadulterated chocolate is almost unpalatable.
We like sugary chocolate because it has been changed. Adulterated. Oh.
Could tears clean out the roughness in his eyes?
That is why I am happy. I cry the Sorrow out, since poets are not afraid to do that sort of thing. The hunger of starving artists makes us sensitive.
He seemed like one of the people that can be Happy while Sorrow constantly nags on their heartstrings. Like, "Ha, ha, that film was funny!" but after the film is over there is nothing to distract you so tugtug! you remember being sad. They're always sad, but they can't always remember. He seemed ok
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverstill2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like two blades of grass
heavy with morning dew
but you're the first frost of november.
untitledseducing the writeruntitled2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.
ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or twoImpatient2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refuse to build nests, the
faded black hair on the barbershop floor. They will tell you that this all does matter, and if you care about your
children, it's an absolute, too. Sometimes I run through traffic lights, wear half-unbuttoned flannel and scoff
at the glory of firearms, but you can talk to me whenever you grab my shoulder and take a moment to stop s
You left for work,and I walked into a kitchenYou left for work,1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
lit by liquor store fluorescence,
all the windows shut and curtained
by red fleece blankets. I made coffee,
had that fantasy about your hands
framing the white edges of morning,
then took a shower and dressed
for an early shift at work:
pacing from door for my jacket,
looking for pennies in the carpet,
drinking a second breakfast,
crushing pill dust into mucus,
pushing dots into equations,
sleeping on the couch until
my manager called and asked
how it's been.
She's hiring her niece
maybe for good.
where i dance alonei. I mistook a shy boy for a thunderous one in the days when I lived inside his lungs.where i dance alone2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
ii. I wanted your hands in the early morning, or in 8 o' clock light. (Does it matter? I just wanted you.) Hands like paper cranes, hands like wind chimes. Then we could've been like lovers in a parody: "I love you, I love youno, I don't. But you are beautiful." And while I was not your lover, neither was I your queen. Either way, you wouldn't hold my heart.
iii. Our fingers would've taken flight and then the rest of us, too. Then you would've known of the ballroom in my chest, the migrations inside my body, of the tiny secret nothings that make their way like monarchsas if by instinct, as if they have been here beforefrom ballroom to piano hands to the museum that is my mind to my stomach. But you are the only lost boy afraid to fly.
iv. I was a foreign land and you would not dare travel without a map. But I do not possess a souvenir shop in which to purchase one. I am a des
Writing FairytalesI told him, "I think I'll write a book."Writing Fairytales3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."
"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."
"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story," he continued, "And you'll smirk like you always do because you know the answer but no one else has a clue."
I laughed, "Everyone will cry when they read my book, because it's the saddest story that's ever been told. Everyone will cry but you and I won't."
"We can't cry. It's your book, and I can't cry for you. You can't cry for yourself either, it's ba
stoner's creekshook-loose flowerstoner's creek2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
fell into dark brown water,
and tore on rocks and rapids.
it washed ashore
and dried in the last sunlight,
rotted to sand
amongst dull shells and litter.
it remembered rain
when the sky fell in december,
chiming on leaves
and colorful blossoms far away.
it sighed, Old Indian Giver.
Sincerely,I'm sorry about what happened in Sydney,Sincerely,1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
but I can't just blame myself.
You were sitting beside me
as he laid himself on the table,
your language complex and open
for a man soon entangled
in my sinuous dysfunction
and inability to meet a person's eyes;
Yet it's the longest path
of least resistance
that's easiest to follow,
though it leaves me parched
and wandering through the angles
of a foreign country,
having left Brian or Ryan's flat
with your charms in his bedside pocket,
beside my reality
and faith in monogamy,
or at least our lasting tolerance,
where I touched his temple
to quiet his insistence,
your cock twitching
on his tongue.
Broken.Ah, mum. You do choose the most lovely moments to drop whatthefuckery bombshells. Huddled in a seat at London Euston, scoffing Motilium, and feeling like death, I hear her state simply:Broken.2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
"I don't think I love him any more."
Sure. I knew that. Didn't I? I knew. I know a lot of things about them. Sometimes I think I must see them more clearly than either of them see each other. But saying it out loud feels wrong. To make it more than a fleeting thought dismissed in passing... it's like dropping a heavy stone into a still lake and watching all the gunk and dirt rise to the rippling surface.
There's always been an unspoken belief for me. That even if we hated each other, raged and screamed and hurt each other, there was still love there underneath all the fire. I never had a doubt that if a gun was pointed at dad my mum would step in front of him without even thinking, and vise versa. Through all the painful bullshit they've always said they still love the other. Hate and love twist
Four SinnersSt Peter rapped smartly on the door to the chambers of the Lord, before pushing them open to see the homely white room beyond. The Lord stood up from his seat at the desk and welcomed the saint with open arms, a loving smile on his lips.Four Sinners2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Peter,” he said, his voice soft and deep, like a father’s to a toddler, “how is it I may help you today?”
“My Lord, I know it is unorthodox, but a group of murderers have requested your presence at their judging.” Peter replied, “Each claims to have an injury which excuses their sins.”
The Lord considered this, then nodded solemnly, walking slowly out of the room. His steps were heavy, his stance reflecting his sadness at the necessity of their punishments.
Outside the gates’ white swirls, four men knelt, heads bent. The Devil loitered casually off to one side, his dark robes emanating fear that swirled around him. He and the Lord embraced, as over the millennia their mission has become one a
alienationYou woke up one morning and felt completely different. That is okay, because we both know that the only thing certain is that nothing ever is. I just wish you would have told me then, so I could have tried to wake up feeling different too. I'd rather hear your voice tell me these things than endlessly trying to listen close enough to hear your eyes tell me to stop kissing you. Because regardless of how pretty they are, they aren't always very clear.alienation3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
So now I lay awake in bed during the days and remember what it felt like to be wrapped up in your skin rather than my blankets. And during the weekends I fall asleep in another boys' embrace and we discuss how odd it is that when he touches me I feel at ease, but when you touch me you set my entire skin on fire. And how odd it is that he once loved me and I once loved him, but now we can't seem to remember how to love each other, and we both find ourselves wishing for other hands when we entangle our fingers. But it's so much better than sp
i can't feel my fingers"are you okay?"i can't feel my fingers5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
"no, you're not."
"what makes you say that?"
"there's water running down your cheeks."
"i know. it's running from what i always look at and it's coming from my hair, out of it it's like my hair is crying, i can feel it. it's like a strange explosion inside my veins, a nuclear explosion that makes my blood rush and before i know it there's this pretty little piece of paper covered in all these disgusting words and my heart's pounding so hard i swear he's about to fall out. oh my god look at my hair, it's falling out or maybe i'm pulling it i don't know. and wow my mouth is like frozen it's like nobody can kiss it anymore because i won't have the control to move it's like i'm just shapeless cells or like he can shape me to be whatever he wants but either way i'm still just cells."
"wow. you're a wreck."
"yeah i am but so is he it's like i lost the map to where he wanted me to be it's like he's just a carcass and the real him is dead and a pile of dried-
today's lunchthere is a mug i possess that'stoday's lunch2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
chipped and white and very plain,
but it reminds me of the way
a young artist draws a cup.
i buy a certain brand of fish
from the aldi shy of tinley,
and it's always freezer burnt but
with butter and lemon and tea
it tastes like a delicacy.
an ache bursts within my stomach
that ignores my effort to quell it;
sometimes, it calms with heat and
reminds me of feverish nights
spent beneath a madonna's gaze.
my mother did laundry most days,
and her tired hands left tired lines
like the ones beneath her eyes, and
the clothes i wore were always wrinkled
but i fold mine the same.
i own a shirt that belonged to
a man who once stripped it from
my body and taught me i was nothing,
but it's soft to wear to bed and smells
of unscented detergent.
there was a boy named mirsad
who told me stories i never wanted
to hear, but when i hear his name
i think of stars and baths and light;
he smiled wry and spoke of God
like He was a man
and i knew a dog named gabriel,
Bliss in Insignificany"There we go," she said, sitting up again. "All finished." She looked over her work in the space between his shoulder blades, running the length of his spine.Bliss in Insignificany2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was more like a tattoo than scratches, the series of words she had carved into him this time around. They were from something she had written previously, something he had yet to read.
Her companion gave a long and relaxed-sounding yawn, crossing his arms under his chin as he rested in her lap. She examined her labors for the umpteenth time.
His form is made of something beautiful
That got left out in the rain.
Something too heavy to reach the sky
But still too light to sink.
While he could not see the words, she hoped he would be happy with them. At the very least, he would be happy at her back-scratching.
Their nearness went on to last a little while longer (exactly how long she could not tell, for he had a tendency to make her forget what time it was) before they were required to part ways again.
It happened this way
e.e.cummingsThe day you left, I skipped school to see you off.e.e.cummings3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I said, "There are more important things than school."
You said, "I never said there weren't."
Now, I mostly miss you, and usually on Sundays, I make my way to the place where we used to sit out Sunday School. There's still a Bible on the rock where I think you might have left it, and I pick it up and read it. I've never gotten past the gospel of Matthew, because every time I read it I see you staring at the sky and asking if Heaven's hypothetical.
There were stars in the sky that night, and you said you used to think they were god shining through a curtain.
Once we talked about Our Father who Art in Heaven and you told me that if you were a believer, you'd say both your fathers art in heaven, and hallowed be their names.
I remember the day I skipped fourth block, and we sat on the rocks and smoked. You told me it wasn't good to abandon my education, so you taught me e.e.cummings-
"I like my body when it is with your
I learned t