Soul Fucking

Soul Fucking

The bathtubs at the Bowery Hotel 
are exceptional but better alone. 
Like sex in general because 
fucking yourself rarely gets old. 
Lunch is the saddest meal of the day
and October is beautiful. 
It should come around twice
but it doesn’t. Some things 
are singular. I think of you always
even if people tell me you’re terrible. 
What do they know about 
soul fucking anyway?
It’s sad how even sex 
becomes eating an orange. 
Exciting at first and then
juice. Only juice. 
And I know we didn’t fuck 
but it was like standing 
in front of a painting. 
More interesting than
knowing the artist on earth. 
People will never understand
one another in this world. Not really.
We are unknowable as each winter 
or what anyone who jumped
thought of that day. No one
knew me exactly like you did. 
A person eating an orange.
Walking up Bond Street. 
Trying on shoes I won’t wear 
just to see myself as somebody else.
There is no true self. 
No one gets to the bottom of anything. 
I only wanted the soul 
and I’d soul fuck you 
anywhere. Anyway. 
I could watch you 
peel an orange forever. 
And right before death 
we must think of the smallest things.
I’m willing to bet on this. 
Not sex or why evil exists. 
Not where the soul lives entirely.  
More like a face that has 
recognized yours from a distance. 
A voice that feels intimate
in that moment before 
you actually turn. 
You are that moment for me. 
You are the turning. 
And yes, I will soul fuck you 
into eternity. I will soul 
fuck you like nobody else.