Sex Bot On The Frontier

been sitting on this for awhile . maybe i should keep sitting on it. emo ass.

my name is jesus christ and im on the third day of listening to my neighbor scream death threats through the wall. it smells like dog piss in the hallway and i feel a pimple coming in. my name is jesus christ and all the love in the world is dripping down my leg

my name is judas iscariot and piss is dripping down my left butt cheek. theres a suspisciously pimple shaped hole on my face but i vehemently deny any responsibility

vehemently is often followed by denial. when is passion ever used to do anything but negate

my name is the thief who was crucified at jesus’ 9’oclock and im in a shirt i stole from someone i used to sleep with and desperately needed at one point or another

my name is god and i’m slowmo falling to my barely one story death. i’m like a turtle stuck on its shell in mid air im unsightly in the way i claw and kick at the ceiling. wait no that’s icarus. wait no that’s jesus. wait no that’s my femur. i’ve broken my femur. the sun is coming in and they’ll find my body with only the face aged. old timey brass music that plays when the shanghai princesses enter the casino will sound through passing cars. there will be chicken in the fridge and pictures of butts on the walls. go into my phone and text everyone that i faked it (not my death).

all the it girls are dead now. all the it girls have nasal drip. tuesday is the new wednesday is the new friday and none of us ever own up to our actions

vip section poets sprawl across uncleaned silk pillow cases - this is the life. this is the lap, liver, and labia of luxury, they say as they sniff chemicals that are used to shine shoes. vodka cheats on the bottom of the bottle with the bottom of peoples stomachs. people get less ugly. dresses get tighter.  driving gets better. poetry gets written lines get sniffen

my heart is the size of my nostril is the size of my mouth is the size of my butthole. my vagina is the size of the world. cut to the other end of the world. not the part where the penis goes in, but the part where the piss goes out. 

at the piss end of the world, leigh cherry feels all of its injustices as a pea under her many mattresses. bernard kisses her tits over her no nukes t shirt - does a class war mean the death of fun? 

cut to the middle of the day. dust is flying. sun is coming in through a window. the mosquitos are fucking and so are we. 

pan to you on top of me. zoom into that freckle on your shoulder blade. a mosquito is on your back. another mosquito lands next to that one. buzz buzz they go. translating to. let’s fuck. let’s have crazy mosquito sex and fall in love and die. 

the mosquitos experience an earthquake. which is really just you sticking your dick in me. world shattering for three out of four of us. 

we do things like breathing and moaning and squelching. the mosquitos do things like buzz buzzing. we say things like omg babe i promise that wasnt a fart. the mosquitos say things like buzz buzz, which mean - to die in your six armed embrace would be to live forever. to cease to breathe while gazing into your bright red eyes would be to take my first real breath. 

the mosquitos fuck. we fuck. god rolls his eyes at another orgasm-induced invocation. you collapse on top of me and i go and wipe myself off. the mosquitos are stuck to that mole on your back, died in 69. 

if you’re lucky enough to not be a mosquito and if you’re lucky enough to live past an orgasm and a good meal, here’s what’s up. theres no winning. at least mosquitos are ready to die to get inside each other. at least they’re willing to die just to drink. maybe we’re willing to do that second thing but you didnt even wish me a happy birthday. when you sleep with me really all you do is sleep next to me. 

monogamy sends you to the ER like escargot - you’re more surprised you tried it and not at all shocked it has you on your hands and knees. i wrote poems for this boy in the ER that would give john green the biggest tragedy boner hes had since making those kids fuck in the anne frank house. he says it was innocent. 

is there such thing as an innocent desire? 

no, says judas

no, says the moon, feeling violated since 69. 

no, says the mountain that preceded mount rushmore. also, go fuck yourself, it says in lakota

yes, says the woman with a wet wipe of jesus’ tears

yes, says john green

yes, start to say in unison every man who has ever been in my bed - the irony lost upon them -

maybe - i interrupt, shoving the map to irony in their dumb faces, standing stupidly scratch and sniffing my metaphorical ball sack. but what do i know. i barely know my own desires - dont even try to ask me whether or not they’d be able to ditch the orange jumpsuit. my desires take their own cases pro bono. my desires drop the soap on purpose but just because you take it up the ass doesn’t mean you get put your hands on me and tell me that they’d love me on epstein’s island 

my desires tell me i either need to die or fuck every 8.5 and above in a 10 mile radius and god knows i can i mean look at me look at how i sit on the toilet so my stomach doesnt fold dont you want to fuck my throat while i take this explosive shit

i am going to die on the 6. i am going to die and last thing i’ll have told anyone was ‘do you still want to be friends? it’s ok if not but just tell me.’ the difference between you and i is that the meanest thing i will say to you is that you write like a man scorned but the meanest thing you will do to me is what you’re doing right now. i love you ferociously. i want you to get everything and more and i don’t want any other girls to touch your dick or wash your hair or marry you

i can only think of him when i think of the end of the world. everything’s on fire. we’re sitting on two ends of a cliff maybe. you may hate me but you never questioned why i was so angry. 

there’s an explosion. the crumbling of mount rushmore. a ‘fucking finally’ whispered in lakota. 

once the tide takes a couple more continents and pangea files for copyright, i’m going to lay down by your grave and annoy you one last time. 

new york is sinking and we are in the midst of a citywide deepthroat, joined by our gagging and drooling, joined by our lantern flies and STIS, joined by guts schmeared on 13th and broadway like strawberry cream cheese. 

before the sun goes down a lone mosquito travels cross country embedded in my leg for there is no indulgence without displacement

the smell of cow maneur on the taste of my post burger tongue, pre and post mortem revenge

premortem eulogy for non monogamists, as in you were nicer to me before you knew me from the inside

frenched by the janitor, he avoids looking at me and we think the same thought: “why would something so good be in between the legs of someone like me?” 

he was my friend. i took care of him good and i watched him walk away. the holy he. the father the son and the holy spirit. i am standing with my back to him. or is his back to me and am i choosing to believe that i turned away on purpose and was not turned upon. am i choosing to believe i am the object and not the subject of this sentence? the difference between a man and a boy is the harm they’re capable of. you were my friend and you were the best of men, but you were still men. i’m going to c-section out of myself a version of you that would apologize to me. im looking inside myself with a flashlight and mirror and fishing it out with a bent hanger. irony drives its own uber to my house. i may never forgive you but i will care for you forever and that is my punishment.

god takes a butterknife to 13th and broadway. pangea settles for $200,000. my desires become abolitionists. the janitor becomes a ken doll. and all the love in the world is dripping down my leg.