The Tree of (Unac-)Knowledge(d).

I am the half of the apple you dare not eat.
It is not that I am too sweet,
Nor am I too bitter.
Discard of me like litter
Eve, throw me away,
Before you are tempted.

Curse the grocer who sent it.
I am the worm at the centre,
The scaled down snake.
Eden never mentioned me,
Nor this breast that longs.

The taste of our truths burn
Cold on forked tongues,
Cast aside those corrupt gourds,
Turn your back to tainted hearts,
Throw me away, Eve,
I am the apple.
The rotten part.

c. Image by author

These streets I walk,
Cold,
From the depth of my being,
The chill of this place,
Shuttering down my spine,
I long to be far away,
I wonder how long I would have to walk,
To find a place where my wounds could be healed,
How far away does one go?
To get away from the narrow cries of broken yesterdays,
I want to outrun my skin,
Break away from this ghetto,
I long for days,
Dancing amongst the ruins of yesteryear,
I want to be naïve again,
I want back into the days,
Before all of the pain and bullshit ever faded the edges of my beauty,
“It won’t be long now,”
“I’m scared,”
“Of what my child,
You know what is to come,”
“But I still know not,
If I will make it”
I am merely,
Every day,
Surviving.

All of us have those urges to quit our jobs, sell everything we own, take what we need in our car and drive off into the sunset to pursue our dreams. Few of us ever follow these dreams.. Except, Buddy Wakefield did just that. Ten years ago, he quit his job as an executive assistant in the biomedical field, gave up his relatively cushy life in Seattle and got on the road as a Slam poetry performer. Living frugally, driving from venue to venue, never knowing what the next place, week, month had in store for him, Wakefield set out to discover and conquer the poetry circuit.

Around 1998, Wakefield attended a Slam poetry event in Seattle, and also stumbled upon the Saul Williams’ film, titled Slam. The film connected with him because of its honest engagement with the hard knocks of life. Wakefield was hooked. He performed his first Slam poem the night after he attended the first Slam poetry event and hasn’t looked back since. He has won numerous awards, has been featured on NPR, the BBC, HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, and most recently signed to Ani DiFranco’s Righteous Babe Records. In 2004 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Finals and then defended it again in 2005. He is currently wrapping up a tour promoting his new book Gentleman Practice and will be appearing at the Fridge in Washington DC.

Ten hard years later, when I asked him if he would do it all over again, Wakefield said, “Absolutely yes, but with some smarter choices.” One of his biggest lessons has been learning how to take care of himself on the road with healthy food, exercise, sleep, and avoiding the traps of a touring artist that lead to a volatile mindset. His advice to anyone who wants to give this a try: eat, sleep, exercise, and most importantly remember to breathe.

Wakefield had the unique opportunity to work with Ani DiFranco, a renowned poet, performer and activist on several shows. I asked him to describe his experience working with her. Wakefield said, “Ani influenced me off the stage just as much as she did on the stage. As an artist, she was very comfortable with what she knew and how she explored her creativity. I’m not sure how much we influenced each other, but her off stage grace is very powerful. She has been speaking with a purpose for the past 20 years. Watching her on stage is a treat, but the personal conversations with Ani were undeniably magical experiences.” Wakefield recalled driving through the national monuments in Colorado with DiFranco when somehow the conversation moved to flights. DiFranco remarked to Wakefield that the mere act of engaging in conversation puts her in fight-or-flight mode. DiFranco’s honesty in addressing her vulnerability touched Wakefield in a profound way. Contrary to common stereotypes that performing artists are crazy people, he fondly regarded DiFranco as someone who is grounded, has taken time to experience life, participate in life, and contribute to the psychological evolution of life. This special friendship reaffirmed the role of organized, hard working, and talented artists for Wakefield.

When asked about the show he will perform this weekend at the Fridge, Wakefield said that everyone is going to enjoy jamming together, and that he will talk about fun and serious topics. He asked everyone to come ready to engage, and have “an experience” together. He also said he doesn’t shy away from his sexuality if it comes up in the course of an evening’s performance, but that he is more interested in the universality of life and less on micro identities.

This May 12th will complete 10 years of living on the road. Wakefield is hanging up his shoes after a grueling but inspiring phase of his life as a performing artist on the road. The May 13^th performance in Seattle is a homecoming show and his last show as a touring artist. Wakefield has fallen in love and is looking forward to settling down on five acres in the middle of nowhere. He will run a landscaping business with his partner. He said he is looking forward to create a more central role for stillness, grace, groundedness in his life, and focusing his energies on one person. I’d be willing to take bets that his gypsy spirit will be back on the road in a few years, partner in tow, bringing us more of his wonderful poetry. For now, come check out his show this weekend at the Fridge.

Details:

Saturday, May 7 from 7:30pm – 10:30pm

The Fridge  (close to the Eastern Market Metro)

Rear Alley, 516 8th Street, SE

Washington, DC

Admission $10-$15

This is the sound of a one-handed poem

See, I will love you with one hand tied

If that’s what part of me needs to believe

If there is a section of my domestic

Ikea, lunch break, levelheaded, adult decisions

Paranoid brain

Always obsessed with assurance that I am maturing

At an acceptable rate

That has to believe that accepting every single term

Of our love

Means somehow that I am tying back an arm

I will take that

Because that is the arm that swings wildly in the air

With all of my Italian gusto

My redneck dramatics

And my artistic, undiagnosed creative sensibilities

That never seem to make up their mind

About who I am today

That is the arm that cannot yet trust

That a love this deep is real

Because it is far too used to fighting back

To get used to the idea

That I have nothing to fight back against

Because even the worst of us

Is wrought with an overwhelming

Undertone of total, and complete love

The kind of arm that needs to sit down,

Shut up,

And accept you

I will tie down that hand

And use the other to speak to you only in calm love

Because I know that no matter what my guarded ego

Tells me

The vulnerable portion of my heart that is locked inside a treasure chest

Deep inside an ocean somewhere

Is not just the side of me I am scared of you rejecting

It is the side of me I need to show you

The most

With my hand untied

I give you the key

And the map

To that part of myself

And I give you my blessing

To seek and find

Please

Go quickly

Because you might have noticed I live inside of a beat

That may be precious and frail

But is not soft and sweet

Because it is a beat so quick

That it might be mistaken as youth

It is not my youth

It is the speed in which I seek

And find

And baby,

I know now that with you I can keep that speed

Because you will

Come to know

That I love you

Just as hard as I fight you

And while you are addicting

To the point of tears and withdrawals

To every single man you meet

And most of all to me…

I, too, am the highest

You have ever felt

In a way you cannot live without

And our powerful affects

On one another

Are a constant

No matter how at peace we are

I have a techno, house, choppy

Electronic, post-Bush

Present day, hypnotic beat

Rhythm to my life

And you are a remixed collage of beautiful

Noise repeating within it

Like it or not.

But baby,

You only need to love

Your promotion to percussion in my life

Because you sound like an angel

Like an angel minced among

This slideshow of my life, repeating

I am willing to forego the parts of me

I am not certain of

In sacrificial respect of the parts

I know to be as certain as a global rotation

That also exists inside this poet

When you set ablaze the fiery tween girl

Inside me spewing out Seventeen magazine

Relationship quiz advice

You have not

You never can

Burn that actual epic frontier lover

That waits in front of a breathless horizon

For his soul mate to return from

Whatever has separated us

I used to remain inside

But now

We remain inside

Underneath every scar of uncertainty

And cracks of broken

That will exist over time

I know to be certain

Only a few things

Strong enough to cause me

To tie down my hand

And bite my tongue

In order to

Once and for all

Let my heart do the talking.

Submission by Jeremy Pace, TNG contributor

When my lower back is cold

Your hands are warm

When my hands are calloused

Your hands are soft

When I’m feeling tired

You’ve just brewed us chai…

And when I’ve been scolded

For the way I love myself

When I’ve been handed

Weights made for my back

When I’ve laughed off connections

In favor of surface-value celebrity

And when I’m finally exposed

And no one is around

Your lips tell me I’m there

In the place I need to be

You’re suddenly all hungry

For taking on more weights

And you barrel like a champion

Through the walls I’m putting up

You walk in to see me sitting

In the corner in a ball

And you sit down and join me

Until I smile again

Carnal urges soar

through veins surging with olfactory

senses of that sweet smell of cologne and cognac

a finished fifth of Jack spurred

moments of gravitational ephemeral pleasure

His skin tastes like candy

Howling and eyeing prey

these wolves never stop

until sunrise

until daybreak

claws scratch at the cotton blend tee

hours move like seconds

trip slip with every touch of the hip

wild murmur of the heart

exploding growls of sensuous delight

No tame cat can

compete in the jungle of

misplaced belts and trampled crew socks

and then time stops and

they are glue

and nothing moves

not a sound

not a breeze

paw upon paw

this is animal law

inside a room of leafy green

His teeth bared into a smile

calms

traps the screeching sound of those who

yearn for what these creatures have

but still deny them their happiness

forget this savage noxious world

pull over the quilt of night

hibernate until the fright

is over, when we can

live in peace

where only God can see us

and they can’t tell us

that animals of the same kind

can’t love

paw in paw

and they’ve fixed the world

He created, but they destroyed

until then

all we can do is survive

Niether departing or arriving

We live in a world of blazing contradiction and we are fine with that. These are the days when we have taller buildings but shorter tempers; wider freeways but narrower viewpoints; we spend more yet have so much less; we have more degrees but less sense; more varieties of food but less nutrition.

We have bigger houses, but smaller families; more conveniences yet so little time; more knowledge but less judgment; more experts, but more problems, more medicine but less wellness.

We have multiplied our possessions but reduced our value; We talk too much but love too seldom and lie too often; We learned how to make a living but know nothing about how to make a life; we’ve added years to our lives but not enough life in our years; We’ve been all the way to the moon and back but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbors; We have gone faster than sound but cannot cap an oil spill; we can predict the weather but cannot predict a disaster.

We’ve conquered outer space but not our inner space; we’ve done larger things but not better things; we’ve clean up the air but polluted our souls; we’ve split the atom but not our prejudice; we’ve learned to rush but not wait; we have higher income but lower morals; We build more computers to store more information but have less communication.

These are the times of tall men with short character, disposable relationships, throwaway morality, and pills that do everything from cheer to quite to kill. It is a time where there is much in the showroom but nothing in the stockroom. There is glitz but absolutely no glamour.

Indeed this is all very true.

I sit with my eyes closed

A blank slate

Surrounded by white

And lightness

A perfect meditation

And remember

One at a time

Each note to the sound

Of the song

Of your voice

I build your image

One bend

One ripple

One vein

At a time

Paying close attention

To your lashes

Each one of each one of

Your eyes

And how they are the most magnificent

And furthest reaching…

Drawing me into your eyes

And brushing my blushing cheek

From across oceans

And thousands of miles away

Where you stand beneath

Flags waving my name

And undoubtedly reach

To brush your soft square fingers

Against them

As you walk under

A rainbow

And feel protection

As I feel protection

From the rain

I reach out to your image

Perfectly reproduced

Accurate

Heart breaking

And feeling homesick

For wherever it is

You are

Photo credit: AndreaGibson.org/Casie Zalud

Turns out YouTube is good for something other than keeping current on the latest viral and music videos. Who knew? In fact,  it’s possible to find some incredibly moving (if tragically overlooked) spoken word poems, if you’re willing to do a little digging. I’ve been known to spend entire hours down a YouTube rabbit hole, watching poet after poet blow me away with his or her words. So I’ve done the digging for you and below are three of my current queer-themed favorites to help you pass the time this Friday.

While I’ve already espoused my fanboy love of Stacyanne Chin in a previous post, these are some recent-ish finds (for me – the poems themselves are not necessarily new). While the themes may be diverse, I realize the characteristics of the poets themselves are not (my personal preference is for female slam poets, sorry). But that’s where you come in! Offer up your favorites in the comments below and we’ll feature them in a future post!

“Ashes” by Andrea Gibson

Gibson is considered a goddess among slam poets. This particular piece was inspired by the story of a gay soldier who was burned to death for being queer. Its power is further augmented by a soundtrack provided by queer folk musician and TNG favorite Chris Pureka.

“The Magician is a Drag King” by Marty McConnell

McConnell is a favorite poet of mine who often works in series of poems. This particular piece is from a series that uses the tarot deck to tell the stories of individuals whose sexuality lies outside of the mainstream. It  is a defiant and swaggering celebration of gender performance and identity. (Note: Language NSFW.)

“Boy” by Jeanann Verlee

For the straight ally perspective, I turn to Verlee, who wrote this poem as a tribute to her gay brother and their hardscrabble youth. (Note: Language NSFW.)

**Bonus** “The Hierophant’s a Bear” by Marty McConnell

In honor of it being MAL Weekend in DC, here’s a quick poem also from McConnell’s tarot series that celebrates the hairy among us.

Don’t forget to vote for Jeremy as the Metro Weekly Cover Boy

Cover me in your soft, foreign tongue

Cover every inch of this American boy

With tales of what you have learned to be the truth

As the truth in another language

Teach me how your vowels hold themselves

Against the howling rise and fall of your meter

Allow me a chance to hear the song of your language

Free of lecture or explanation

I am at the mercy of your speech

Left, pleasantly and content

In a mysterious soundscape

I will trust that

You have no intentions of insults

That your words are flattering

Or honest

I rest, with pleasure

In the modern exotic landscape

Of your speech

I ask only that you whisper softly

Everything I need to know

But you cannot say in English

What can’t you tell me in my native tongue?

What about you has to be said in words I don’t understand?

If you find that there are baggages

Secrets

Issues

My fresh and tender heart cannot bear the weight of

Do not deny me honesty

Rather

Place your gifts, wrapped

At the doorstep of my forehead

My earlobes

My Adam’s apple

My lips

And leave the unwrapping

To me

With the many publicized deaths of LGBT youth in the last few months, and countless more that the media isn’t showing us, it’s impossible not to be in a state of grief. One of the ways that I grieve is to write. I wrote this performance piece as something I wish someone would have written for me a long time ago. The point is not that it gets better or not, but that every day we continue to live our lives honestly and openly is an act of resistance to bullying and oppression. If you understand open and honestly living as a queer personand breaking stereotypes of all kinds, despite violence, a form of defiance, the LGBT community is in a constant state of sustained resistance to oppression. Understanding that who we love is political and that we are participating in a global queer revolution when we wake up each morning should not stop us from taking overtly political acts, but we should also understand that our personal lives and choices are intensely political.

You say you dig that pussy thing
Just forgot to wear your wedding ring
Didn’t know this bar was gay
You don’t mind so you stay

After just one little drink
You were staring at my dink
When you downed that second shot
You hand appeared on my cock

Never been with a guy
It’s something you might like to try
You’re tipsy and not thinking straight
When will your inhibition break?

Your third beer is what you’re sipping
You like my ass, you must be tripping
Pretend that you’re too drunk to stand
Ask me to lend a helping hand

Your house is so far away
My place is close- you wanna stay
Just to sleep no funny stuff
It’s cool if I sleep in the buff

Damn, that’s potent alcohol
You don’t feel like yourself at all
Do I work out? How big is my chest?
Maybe you could see the rest

My skin looks soft, you’d like to feel
Your fantasy’s becoming real
What’s it like to give head?
You wanna know- come to my bed

Does your woman know you’re here?
Does she know you’re a three beer queer?
Will she meet your special friend?
That boy you sexed at this night’s end

Just how necessary are my polite apologies?

My jaw is tired from keeping the peace

And some days I’m just not sorry.

You have no idea how to leave

Your daddy in the bedroom

And there just isn’t a place for him

In the living room.

As I watch you slowly

Take off you’re disrespect for me

Because you’re a gentleman, right?

I have learned the

Thick throbbing uncut

Hard way

That it isn’t just a vagina

That makes you a whore

I am a whore because I am entered

You are young and viral

Because you enter

It is he who enters

That is free

Not me.

This article was submitted by TNG contributor, Jeremy Pace

All I know

Is that if I can’t be with you

I will spend the rest of my life looking

For someone who looks

Sounds

Behaves

As you do

And if god put you on this earth

A straight man

And I a gay man

In some cruel joke

It means no less that I am yours

But only that I will spend

My days and nights beside you

In love

And friendship

And never kissing you

Not knowing you in my arms

Never touching you

In that way

Will be my penance

And I will die a martyr

But they tell me of saints

Martyrdom is a must

And so I will die

Saint Pace

The Patron Saint of Peace

Because I cannot stop smiling

You can also watch Jeremy perform this poem here

There was a country song on

When I was a young

Boy that, like many do-it-yourself bullshit pop-up McSongs are

On the radio today

Was a list of what the average, everyday

Common man goes through

In his (and I mean his, not hers, mind you)

Long lived life

When lived just right

The chorus declared

From the town square

That you gotta ‘get you some’

Then they’d tell you the what

First money, then love, then babies…then done

Like many other people in this country, and time

I was raised below a line

The poverty kind

The lovely lower class

Watching middle class asses

Sit on my glass

Ceiling and pass

Giant plates of food

Past

Our grasping hands to

Each other

As a boy I’d take in

The bottom of their chins

As they’d shit again

On what was given

To them

And looked with longing to

The next glass they knew

The one that gave view

Of the upper crusted puppets

Controlled, but free

I was told I had to get me some money

But unlike the rest

Of this generation’s best

I said fuck

Money

And I’ll say it again

FUCK MONEY

And if there are those that agree

That were born free

To say it with me

The freedom to see

Wrapped in a box with holes and slashes

Called lower class

But actually a fantastic

Gift. Then say it with me

Fuck. Money.

And if I hear

Out here

In the city I live

Another song

With this

Insistence

That I chase more bills

And get more thrills

From big oil spills

And more credit card bills

Then I swear I will

Rip every radio from the walls

Until there’s no noise at all

But the penniless artist

On the corner with guitar

Waiting for his call

From the companies that started

This whole fucking case

In the first place

Every twenty something

Needs to be free

Of this bullshit noise

Of dollars and coins

And just live on a dime

Free Ninety Nine

And no tax

But that

Wasn’t all I was told

I had to get, hold

Onto

Part two

I was told to get love

Had to get me some

But the love of doves from above

Wrapped in charms and arms

Bullshit cheap rhymes

Bored my mind

And made my eyes

Dry

And bleed

I have always needed

Something more than that gnat

That flies around splat

And hits you in the eye

While you blink and you cry

And your lids

Bring it

To what it wanted all along

A sad country song,

And a death from a blink

Before you could think

How gross

The whole

Process really was

Fuck love

The ‘gotta have it’ just cuz

Kind at least

Don’t bother me

With your bullying

Insistence I scorn

A life lived alone

For any period of time

When I

Alone, am just fine

With my own set of rhymes

Much better than lovey doves

From above

But instead from below

From a place I know

To be real and alone

And while I know

I will love as I go

I will never feel bad

For flying solo

Just cuz they said so

And since I’m on a roll

There’s one more part of me

That felt the sting

From these

The part three

Gotta get you some…babies

No

I

Don’t

And neither do you

Ever traveled to India?

I’m guessing Mr. country song hasn’t yet, have ya?

Well let me tell you firsthand what I was lucky to see

Lucky said meaning luckily

I am me

A queer and so I don’t have to submit

To the bullshit pressure to make more kids

A woman’s got enough

Shit that is tough

To have to live with

Without being forced to make more kids

They can also grow

Ideas that will show

You things you’d never know

You didn’t even know

So

If you wanna chillax

Take a step back

And say ‘Damn there’s a lot of us’

You can trust

That I’ll be on your side

Keeping your mind

Clear

Of fear

That you’re missing your chance

Because you’re giving one too

The chance to

The earth to finally breathe

Taking gulps from the gulfs

Covered deep in debris

And it’s just the way

I see myself play

A role in this place

But mother earth gives more every time we take

Keeps sending more queers into this place

To take care of kids who don’t have a space

To play

And call their own

And you can fight it if you want

But we’re a place to call home

And all the while songs tell boys like me

That I’m somehow wrong for existing

But I’m finished with songs from that country

And it seems since the start they were finished with me

But so long as we sing

As loud and bring

Our selves to the ring

If this is a fight you gotta miss

Its worth TiVoing

And so long as I live

I will not let this

Musical attack

Keep coming back

To stop dead in our tracks

Anyone else like me

Who doesn’t see

Why we all must be

Exactly

The same. Enough to write in a song

Just three minutes long

And loud enough to hold

A hand over throats

And squeeze them closed

I promise to go

To the source and stand bold

From a voice that rings cold

And tell them so

I said let go.

I said

Let go.

They look the same

From far away

Trans and gay

But still you say

That’s not me

You shoot yourself in the foot

Just trying to put

Yourself first

Display the worst

Of the other side’s fight

Trying to break free

Of the T

But GLB

Can never say ‘we’

Are family

When we treat

Our kin

Like some sort of sin

That’s what they’ve said to us

And all of a sudden

Stonewall is null and void

While we try to employ

Our deepest deny

Of the the first brick’s flight

Thrown at Stonewall

From the hand that we call

A freak

From the hand of a queen

Dressed in drag

It’s a fact

Worth remembering

And we are in her court

Try and move forth

Without her voice

And you’ll fall flat

Just spinning your wheels

People, we need heels

To get ourselves from this mud

And be it Trans or AIDS

This is our blood

We must love

Ourselves before we can move

To a new

Day

Without these mistakes

So below us

This is a fight for love

Every kind we can get

And when it comes to the T

We cannot forget.

War

Call to battle-
Left alone in the sea
Watching lover’s disappear

My love

Man to man
Heartfelt embrace
Judged for eternity

Affair

Elegant tears
Push doors open
Find them, see them

This post was submitted by TNG contributor, Barry Frauman

Workshop director and secretary of the GLBT NewTown Writers, Barry Frauman writes not only short poems, but also verse narratives, including WEST-EAST, an American/Taiwanese gay male romance; GAY DON JUAN; and SONS OF NEW TOWN, celebrating the area of Chicago for which NewTown Writers is named. Barry’s current work-in progress is CRUSADES, a volume of two verse narratives, one each on the First and Third Crusades.

MODESTY

You called your virgin weapon far too short,
and would not show it to me in full light;
but in a darker glow I took your form:
My happy tongue rode up and down its height.

I drank white nectar spurting from your tip
while you, by firing it, broke into sighs,
inviting me to swallow all your thanks,
and rest my head upon your slender thighs.
@2010 by Barry Frauman

DICKHEAD

Hold three days of piss in your bladder.
I want your cock to spew yellow juice
to soak and reek your jock,
then harden up to rip through the cloth
and flood my gullet with piss and cum
while I’ll jerk out a pillow-feather,
tickle your prick and stiff you again.
@2010 by Barry Frauman

DEMONS

In my mouth you were big,
geysers of lightning spurting your prick
to scorch my larynx haggard with lust;

your cum cascaded my flaming throat,
down the pit of my balls to eddy and surge
as the base of my shaft drank it up

in the sweating monsoon of our rainforest pubes
to the height of my still-exploring cock;
I creamed the delicious dark of your hole,
the bloodburning sheath of Tony the Devil.
@2010 by Barry Frauman

MOONLIGHT

As he bends to enter the back
of the purple car,
sculpting the ass of his jeans into perfect spheres,
a sliver of tight white Jockey short
tugs at my hand
which tumbles inside behind the moonlight,
palming his tingling smooth
as I finger his dark sweet tropic lair,
sweaty black of the pit
which urges and surges my moaning spurt.
@2010 by Barry Frauman

This post was submitted by Rachel Settecase

Rachel Settecase is 17 years old and lives in Milwaukee, WI.  She loves writing and finds activism very rewarding.  She says her life has its rough parts but everything always ends up working out in the end as long as you keep your head up.

I run to the bathroom close the door and lock it.  I take the place in front of the mirror.  What I see scares me, I see myself, my own eyes burn through me.  Making me bow my head in shame.  I turn on the shower as hot as my hand can stand.  I again take my place in front of the mirror.  Stripping off layers I become exposed and vulnerable.  My eyes critique and smolder through me still.  I pull back the shower curtain and sit down directly under the water.  Letting the hot water run over my body, I hope it will help me feel clean again.  I try to wash the guilt away.  Under the rain like water I tilt my head back and feel the warm sensation flow over my eyelids and down my face.  I wait for the water to wash all of this hurt away.  I massage shampoo into my hair and I still feel dirty.  I wash my face for what seems like days and I still feel dirty.  I scrub every inch of my body and I still feel dirty.  I still feel responsible for all this pain and I cant get it to go away.  Tar like and sticky it won’t leave me.  I pull my knees to my chest and hug them trying to hold myself together.  Its not working I’m crumbling inside my skin.  I have nothing left to clean but I still feel filthy.  Disgusted with myself I shut off the water and towel myself.  I step in front of the reflective glass that caused me so much pain.  My face, my body fogged, blurred out of existence.   If only it was that easy.

This post was submitted by TNG Contributor, Patrique.

Strip for me,

And I don’t mean your clothes.

Bare for me

I want to see your soul.

To see what you are,

Your hopes and dreams

Is this what you want?

Am I what you need?

Stripped down raw

Until we see

Each perfection

And each flaw -

You see,

This is the meaning of true intimacy.

This post was submitted by TNG Contributor, Patrique

Dear Zeus,

you’ve abducted me

and raped

my heart, you’ve plundered

like vineyard grapes.

Distilled and fermented

into a fine pinot noir

until all I could say is

vous m’aimez ce soir?

For Thy Meat (after Marlowe)

-

Live, come on me, and as for love,

We’ve only clinic tests to prove

Our innocence. Then, young and free,

We’ll romp through concrete Arcady.

-

What hearts have felt, and tongues have caught,

And vice-versa, imports not.

Past lusts burnt sweetly, will incense

Paved gardens of inconsequence.

-

Come, cling with me, and roll, and spoon,

Through gentrifying ethnic ruin.

Whites pearlier than moon shall rise

To dazzle hateful foreign eyes.

-

We’ll trouble places, in the dark

No ruraler than public park.

For pollened air, and well-scaped land

Are all the nature we can stand.

-

Our nymphs,with wigs and busts ersatz,

Will susurrate their surly thoughts

That bearded shepherd swains, asleep,

Are amply wooly without sheep.

-

Come build with me. We’ll nest together.

Gingham, plaid, tattoos, and leather

To outift us urbanely, and

Apparel us, American.

-

Come, lay with me, and we shall prove,

That Whitman’s praised adhesive love

Is not so binding in its power

When one takes care to quickly shower.

This submission comes courtesy of Jason n. Rodriguez

Editor’s note: The grammar and spelling mistake are intentional.

mistaken osculation marring adolescent spontaneity as rathered speech; rejuvenated progeny allocate cosseted eloquence- routinely tepid commiseration.; “invert my sallow mouth as few.”

pang,.- each sequence you’ve retched on ellowed countenance anticipates when I finally get to rue; you, while of perpetrated age, confess this bisk as an informal ‘nigger aptitude.’; purportingly reproached, i sized erring the obese womanen:

“constitute your bra as an endearing figment coddled,”

Now legitimized, haste the sarcastic foam once sought to confined. Consenting clasp, proceed my hampered frost as won, precognitive sleeve though femininity betrayed.; reverse my cleats as castigations negated inimical consummation; shall I ever to adorn, maculate their misnomered clat.

Insinuating cattle, ounce seek.; the blotched men I preserve. Odious swarths congealed to resume aborning billiards snitch- the jocularly oppressed immunity sustained as the succession of your chest perfumed in accordance to my epitomized plush; cottage, constant sleep or swayed feet, reluctantly once of mine.; fledgling roofs unfortunately modern-

Pander me brief; the often ovulated restrictient aware.