Sex is a series of loss memories, so I contain a log to keep the images
the date, the address, the first place of rendez-vous and the use of a
When I should be studying, I walk at 3 a.m, the moonlight as sharp as
that overpowers the attractiveness of sleeping. Remembering the past
the best intentions, I remember my childhood with a lack of guilt,
how my favourite marble of dirt and granite reflected the world and
pavements lit by streetlamps. I follow the power lines and take off my
as if I was the only one in the world. I see the snake slither. His saliva
down my throat, I image the real end, the viscious viscous, sweating.
The only sound is the stuttering of my feet and the hissing. Waking
in the morning I find Gregor Samsa next to me, his metamorphosis
under the creeping light of a gloomy day, the clouds bulging with rain.
Being in a bar is like singing to a deaf crowd, illiterate aside a few cuss
laced with love, the rest of the language extinct with their meanings
In the bar, I examine the crowd, and I remind myself of how each
is a child of someone. When nostalgia hits me, I take a shot and a puff,
that asserts my adulthood. What best makes an adult but the
maintaining a bad habit—a passion to make sense of the decay. I play
when I know better to spill out of myself; the drink is diluted under
alcohol like water. Something keeps stuck in the back of my throat.
Perhaps dried cum; perhaps it is a double life. My mind is stuck in
so I dilute my thoughts, as if drinking would make me into a real
Sex clings to me like sin, like a sloppy kiss, which you call as
The tar in your saliva is like holy ash, mixed in like gruel. Our tongues
interlock, your woes hushed by alcohol. Dry kisses are for empty
that know only doubt, each kiss a conscious decision. We are already
dry to our lungs. Our passion should never be dry.