bang it out

the familiar ache as i gingerly
alight on the landing. a Good ache,
mind you, reminding me that i am
still myself, i am still here haunting
my own walls for these years to
come. what are the pieces of our
selves we leave behind, anyway? a
note, a warm feeling, a faded
photograph or three. scatter
my ashes at the Frolic Room.

red bank

“you suck dick like a 25 year-old” he
gasps just loudly enough for me to hear
in this crowded loft of limbs. sweat bead-
ing down my spine, a welcome sensation in
this neverending los angeles wet winter.

it is at this moment i realise, i cannot
recall this man’s name.


you are a series of smoke and
mirrors, an emotional junk bond
where a man once was; or maybe
you were never really there
at all.

words tenuously strung together by
a simulation of humanity, i fell for it
(but not for you). hook line and
sinker seemed simple because you
seemed safe, a lustful port in an
overwhelming nor’easter. not a
sweet boy, not a fuck boy, but a
sad boy; the Much Worse
third thing. vapour and gauze and
blood and bruises. the mess you’ve
left behind before, shrouded in
mystery for a reason.

LA is a small town and you make
it feel even more minute. after all,
misery loves to tell company
to fuck off.