Sex comes like train horns
and a knotful throat. Fuck, I
think: my old god is watching, videotaping
every insurrection I've had and
quickly forgotten. Sex today is like larping,
some stupid toy for this generation's
too-clean hands--their dainty infant claws
open, yes, but flat like the story
behind their stories. Poetry today? A shuddering
tryhard chaos of aesthetics, reminders
of my illiteracy. Sex, then, I guess, is lost on
hipsters, those empty venti cups like
fuckless orgies.
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