tonight, i am the worst queer—i hate longing, detest
                                                                 yearning. right now, i am the worst queer
              poet—i don’t want
                      any synonym for want, any
                      sinfully great lyric ache. i don’t want to read or write a single
                                   beautiful description
       of distance. no.

i will have sex. i will have
                         close, verbal,
    smelly, emotional sex. i will have hotter than a faggy volcano’s
                smutty novel sex. & fuck,
                                 if i can’t have it with someone, i’ll have my way
with me. in fact, i’m already
                                  precumming. i’m leaking right into my left hand—
                                                                                              my nondominant hand’s
                                  powered up, & i’m going. i’m upping the speed,  

               frothing myself forth. i’m getting real friendly
     with my foreskin, leaving every lack
        behind. i’m loving on
                                    & in my behind. my right pointer’s voyaged
                                  far up my twitchy hole, my hairy legs are raised in the me-scented
air, the whole room’s fragranced by butt
                                                       & balls, & i’m watching it all in the full-length mirror.
                                               this creature

     so interested in his own nature. this researcher, studying
          & collecting data on his pleasure.
     i’m at play, i’m the project, i’m both animals
                                       breathing hard.  
i’m breath & both hands working hard. i’m hard, i’m hard, i’m my pleasure
                                          pleasing me. i’m my hole, my cock, i’m my cock, my cock,
           i’m cock & hole, i’m hole & hole, my cock i’m fuck i’m going to

take a break. let my body say, what. god. agh.
                            & squirm a bit
                            while i take some giggly sips from my nightstand water.
                                                                                               while i sigh, delighted.
                      let my body, impatient, exhale into a fuller  
abundance. this moment
                                   not about vexed want, knotted
                                                                 waiting but a true, green
                    resting. & just a different breath.

& then i’m set. ready & well-hydrated. one drooly
               hand twisting a nipple, the other
 droolier hand on my cock. a simpler arrangement
                                                  than earlier, but no less kinetic a combo for this
         late-night, night-long show.
                                sweaty & slow, slow & silly, i’m building
                                                                up to it seriously slow.

                            until i can’t. i catch my face in the mirror,

                                                                                       my unpretty grin, the honestly ugly

fun i’m having. look, i don’t need to be stunning,
                                                                 don’t need a thing, not a fuck fuck i’m
                                                       cumming, it’s hitting my neck,
                                                                                            my face, it’s in my mouth, i’m
                                                                               dripping from my lips,
                                                       i’ve got cum-breath, a cum-stache, & i’m grabbing

                         
     pics. sending them from my phone
                                     to my soul.
                                          & sometime later,

     my soul is cuddling my finally
                                             soft cock. they’re glowing, still, in the stinky bask
                   of each other. & my soul’s nuzzling close, closer than ever to my cock,
                       while my cock, already a touch
                                 recharged, says, hey,
           do you know the term “philatelist”? i just learned this.
                                                a philatelist is one who collects &/or studies
                                                   postal stamps. philatelist, one who practices
philately—doesn’t that sound
                                        kind of like flatulence,
                                            a bit like fellatio? oh,
                                                                                i bet it comes from french—
                                                            why don’t we look it up?
& my soul is nodding
off, he’s starting to make a sound not
                                                        unlike flatulence—& loud. but sort of sweet
             to those who like him.
                                                              mm, says my cock, you’re singing
                                                              your songs again.