Discounted Poetry

You're not hungry But you think you'll take a bite. You sneak a bite, Another,  Then it steals a bite of you. Toxic chocolate. It always tastes Less great than you remember, But you really won't stop. You will never learn. - 9/14/26

I strain against the pressure Of your eyes upon my face. I crumple underneath the weight Of your eyes now shifted far away. So many secrets Waiting for your tasty ear, So many reasons I should simply hold my silence. Tell me more about the weather. Will it really rain? Your cheeks are slightly reddish purple. Do you truly want to know me? We can pace about this circle Now, today, forever. We can stop and dare And let this float adrift, free. - 9/11/26

I don't think I'm ugly. My exes say I'm handsome. I even spend some hours sweating at the gym. Nobody notices. The ladies care nothing for wit or creativity. Even smarter ones are dating athletes. Pretty women are no longer reading poetry. I don't think I'm hungry. I pay my own mortgage. I even make some decent money now and then. Nobody notices. The ladies care nothing for frugal 401ks saved. Even smarter ones are dating brokers. Pretty women are no longer reading poetry. I'd carve a sonnet to your beauty Or compare you to shooting luminous stars, You would never see or read. You only listen to nonfiction memoirs. No one's reading poetry. - 9/10/26

She whispersings my name As if a secret psalm. Her fingers ride my palm Beneath a slight pretext Of telling all my future days. She's not entirely in shape, But all her flesh is draped about her Beckoning and flexing. Her skin is always sliding Nearer to my touch. She flaunts a fiery intelligence. She tears into her croissant And sips her light brown coffee sweet. She keeps receipts. Her eyes exert a gravity I can't escape. While I would love the flowering of world peace, I'd toss it all to Hell For an hour between her knees. She's acting nonchalant, But I can smell She's soon to make a wet mess Inside that dress. - 9/9/26

The room is draining Down into the coldest ground. The air is bored and aged. There is not much use On rising from the couch So beige. You're not around. The day is stillborn. - 9/8/26

You slurped like soup A spoonful of the moon, Its light, mysterious,  Escapes your narrowed eyes Beguiling. I smell the slightest fur On top your arms. You bathe in citrus And blueberry cream. You taste of river water And the freshest, sweetest streams, And I am grateful for the mattress, Dizzy, drowning from my feet. - 8/25/26