Poem of the Month | April

That Song, Like Everything, is About You


You’ve described them to me, and now I don’t know how
to listen to music without knowing cock size and kinks.

Maybe every song is about you, but it’s not romantic
and I’m only slightly more than half interested in the story.

I love you, but do I love you like they love you?
Your side dick is pretty cool, but he’s not as cool as me.

Rainy bourbon orchid sex in a Marlboro forest that’s on fire,
like…my ego doesn’t know how to compete with that.

Imagine talking about your childhood without having to talk
about every celebrity who made a sexual advance towards you.

Imagine being in love with someone who doesn’t water the
orchids while you are bursting into figurative flames.

The humidity in your vagina probably smells like death,
and I hate blaming favorite songs, but who the fuck are they?

You could try to not be so susceptible to them, but a muse
is a muse is a muse, so you justify the experience.

We’ve both lost count of how many.
And I think that’s the point.


Seneca Basoalto | From the upcoming book Black Brooklyn, Bad Baby

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