I don't remember the sex...I want to
In the evening
In the city
Sweet rush of sin and abundance
That pulsing beat of business, bars, booze, and bass
Anticipation alone makes me come alive again
Even if it ends in disappointment
I don't care
I'm a mess of nerves wrapped in charming words
Uncomfortable date with a pretty girl
I try to perform well for her
Her tight butt wrapped in tight white pants
Moves like a snake behind my eyes
I feel it in the pit of my stomach
But I never let her catch me looking at it
It's a gift for me, but only if I can solve the puzzle
Her mind
And win,
Her body
She measures me with judging eyes
But I get lucky
She opens her legs for me after the moon rises
And the drinks are slushing around in our skulls
I don't remember the sex
I want to
But it melts into a drunken dream
I drank too much
Then the fun hits a brick wall and it's over
The glaring morning sun
Like a bright red traffic light
Fun falls flat on the concrete dead
We run for cover to find a cave
Thick curtains, cold air conditioning, pillows and blankets
And water
Sleep until evening, dirty with sin, swimming in dopamine
Wake again at sunset, hungry and awkward.
Meanwhile, that morning, the good Christian girls
With wet hair
Marched off to sacrifice themselves to cash registers, textbooks, nurses uniforms, computer screens
And dragged themselves home exhausted at sundown unsatisfied and discontented
All their desires boxed up in silly romantic dreams and miles ahead of them
Like a carrot hanging from a string at the entrance of a church
That wicked smile of a boy, not like me, who wears a suit and plans every move
He will never drink too much
She will never sleep in sin
They will sign a contract first, before anything
And give it to the government
So they can fuck without shame
And then they will eat each other
Over and over again for the rest of their lives
Like meat and potatoes every night for dinner
We will gorge ourselves on lust
With lots of different lovers
And marry each others' sins
Choosing friendship over organic magnetic machinery
Or we will end up alone with our poems.
--Evan Eli Azur