ce bi se mi ljubilo razmisljati, kako deluje nerimani jambski pentameter, bi tole mogoce se imelo nek smisel, a ko zacutim njene zobe na notranji strani stegna in je ta neskoncni stavek kot tista neprekinjena slast, ko sma med premorom porivanja stene hlastali po zraku, in ko “kako si mokra” iz njenih ust zveni skoraj liricno, takrat ji dovolim, da svoj prst porine v moja usta in se igra z jezikom, ker obe veva, da je tole bolj cummings kot shakespeare in najin fuk je se bolj povrsen od moje poezije.

i wonder how many skeletons she has hid in
her closet and does she ever miss them. there
are emotions people have left with her she
doesnt try to shake off, she hoards them
gleefully. we were too impatient to wait, like diluted
coffee in the morning, stressfully unsatisfying and
bodies craving for more with bitter aftertaste. she
searches the trash bins for memories, a vague
glimpse of excitement, a certain harmony between
her fingers. she has convinced herself constant pain
is beauty, blurry eyed remembering how much my
fingerprints stung as i entered her last. i wonder if
she misses me. i guess theres something poetic in
not knowing.

ko zasadi svoje zobe v moje bedro, se mi zdi, kot da hoce del mene odnest s sabo. tja nekam dalec. zacutim jo v sebi. globoko. globje kot vceraj. stisnem prevleko blazine in najraje bi preklela vse potne kaplje, ki jih je pustila na meni. dihanje in glasno stokanje prilagodim ritmu skripanja postelje. nikoli ni poskusila z roko utisati moje naslade, kot bi pisala samo najin duet. orgazem kot silovit crescendo v levi slusalki. z zadnjimi atomi energije jo sebicno rotim “ostani v meni,” in upam, da ne prebere med vrsticami.

watching her red lips from across the bar, referencing some obscure academic mythology i care nothing about, her fingers hold the bottle like a paper its footnotes. maybe i should stop thinking about her taste on my lips, her flesh beneath my fingertips. maybe i should put time into it, unraveling her as a poem, close reading of her hips and her inner thighs, almost like the endless lines of Howl i keep reciting in my head. i swear Eliot would be proud of me.
new line,
new stanza.
overly facetious. lack of secondary study and my restrain. pushing the structural analysis of her spine to the limit, nearing the absurdity.
my lust for her is like Longenbach
and
his
line
breaks.
allow me to be like Walt, perfectly vulgar.
STRAIGHT TO THE POINT: i admit defeat.
i want to be inside you.

njen jezik na mojem ušesu, topel zrak uide njenim ustnicam, rdeče lase ovijem okoli prstov, glavo potisnem med svoji nogi
poskušam se osredotočit na njene, prste ustnice roke kožo zvok, izdihne glasno zrajca do amena, ko zarine prsta globoko vame, zadržim krik zase soseda spi, miljon misli vse isti imenovalec
ne nehat ne nehat ne nehat ne nehat ne nehat
! ! ! ! !
s konico jezika obrise pot, presteje pike na mojem vratu, nasmeh zamenjam s praznim pogledom, se malo in bo konec

skrivnosti polne uzitka noci prezivetih
v moji skripajoci postelji, ob glasnih izdihih
pretvarjanje, da bo to med nama izginilo za
zaprtimi vrati, in ko bo zadnja kapljica
potu podpisana z njenim imenom stekla
po mojem hrbtu, jo bom glasno preklela,
ker tega prekletega psihofizicnega
obesanja po meni si res nisem zelela.

i run into her like a brick wall, she holds
me like a rose; too tight. incapable of guilt
ill do it again, mark my words. a tattoo
for every one of my
sins.
she watched us grow apart, truth i told
she took as lies, hating every minute of
the love she lost, and me perfecting
the art of disappearing, houdini
would be proud.
the moment creeps up on me and ive
two words left,
“now what?”.

ill
write a run-on sentence about how this stalin’esque paranoia about my love life is slowly taking over my mind and did you see those planes the other day that i dont look for any more cus it doesnt feel right cus they all just remind me of you and why did you have to screw this up for me why did i let you,
sp        a   ce        ou       t        sent     en    ce      s,
bold a few words,
   make a
  not
     at all
   interesting
      structure
and call myself a poet.
when all i want to do is stop writing about
you.

i put on an amateurish production of my
feelings, main protagonist missing until a
dramatic ending where i become an unfeeling
idiot. there is something undeniably attractive
about someone beyond my reach. i grasp at
her like grasping at straws, and tho i never
understood the saying ive got 500 ikea straws
just for her. doomed from the get-go i always
take her suggestion of moving on the most
insulting way possible. her words are empty,
flat, emotionless. sometimes i can have more
meaningful conversations about tying my
shoes. and tho i condescendingly despise her
presence i think it would be really cool if she
stayed.

i hope its alright if i still smell you on
my pillow, its sort of like daydreaming
in clumsily sewn together sentences that
shouldnt make any sense.. so i wrote
about it.
your fingers caressed the back of my neck
as you zipped up my hoodie, its red flashing
in your eyes, lick them cold and start over.. so
i wrote about it.
i prefer your 2am texts that always wake me
up and maybe i should be nonchalant with
your kind but i really cant let you go without
a kiss.. so i wrote about it.
you are my disaster of hide and seek, your
triumphs show in your smile and sometimes
air around us is empty with jealousy, i know
you feel it, too.. so i wrote about it.
at least we stopped, right?