This is from a book called Junk.
Hold on to your butts.
"The days are burnt packets of fake sugar in Faggot Land,
and sundaes are the blurry worst.
I'm taking notes in therapy like, 'be more in the moment.'
Everyone, they say, is trying to quiet the buzz.
But here in the white waves, in the ring of your absence,
I chase the chatter.
I leap into a scream of swans rubbing their swan cocks
against the water's ass.
Starving junk in the sticky soda of my boy and me.
Spit on that rock hard narrative.
Make it glisten.
Fuck.
Oh, fuck.
My head of rabid Sega frantic 16-bit divination.
My hands huge Venn diagrams.
The middle is where I miss you filling me.
Honey.
In the raw.
It's odd to feel someone slip away.
Drilling their junk inside you.
The sky is still and shy and surfing.
Newsflash, predictions are insecure.
But here are the Rainbow Road's possible paths.
Come, delta.
Choke my loneliness, daddy.
More graphics, more resolution, more jagged chin cliffs,
more anarchist sex dolls, more jewel teeth,
more tears on the pizza, more hungry boys somewhere.
In my noise machine, the fat junk wags against my throat.
Junk is charming.
In the hollows, a dude leans into me like cigarettes,
half asleep.
'You know how some people are workaholics?
Well, I'm an alcoholic.'
Today's John.
Lick, click, clock stops the syrup leaking from my mores.
I mean pores.
One more time, please.
Can I ride, please, just one more time?
I got the tightest, pinkest, purse.
Sorry, clutch.
Let's play a game called Sociopath or Gay Man?
Let's bottomless brunch.
Let's, let's, let's.
Petal bagel with strawberry tofu cream cheese, toasted
snickerdoodle smoothie, fuchsia puree adrenaline ho bellinis.
I'll eat it, daddy.
Baby.
I'm the opposite of a foodie.
I'm like a junkie."