BEDSPREAD
I have seriously wondered if I eventually said
The name of every Tommy, every Tony, every Pete
With whom I’d had sex or to whom I gave head
Would I capture the “me” in and out of my bed
Since we are what we eat. If we eat who we meet.
So I seriously wonder if I eventually said
What those dynamics were, even those I’ve misread
With the various men (regardless of sheath),
With whom I’ve had sex, to whom I gave head…
Would I do it again? Or refrain instead?
What encounters in life would I choose to repeat?
I still seriously wonder if I actually said
The name of each Vinny, each Victor, each Ed…
Would the resultant verse be profound? Indiscreet?
For I’ve had lots of sex. For I’ve given much head.
Do such sexual acts constitute my queer cred?
Did the boudoir instruct me as much as the street?
Does it matter who breeded whom? Who got bred?
Do your cheeks burn red? Have I lost my thread?
I wonder.
WHAT A MESS
For what it’s worth, before we officially
split, I’ll get laid
by a drunk I find hot. Superficially.
I’ll never tell. But it’ll stink fishily.
(My commitment is so low-grade.)
For what it’s worth, before we officially
call it quits, I’ll surreptitiously
go out interstitially, tempt fate,
with a hemi-hunk I find superficially
hot. Not the one mentioned previously.
Not him. Not that pseudo-date.
For what it’s worth, before we officially
go separate ways, I’ll mock gay marriage. Initially.
As a way to excuse that I’ve strayed.
I’ll be shocked when you stay. Superficially.
It always happens this way. Incrementally.
As I lay here in a single bed I’ve made
and reflect that unofficially
we might try again. Sentimentally.
SONG OF LOVE
You set my heart to beating
Which is corny I admit
This cliché is worth repeating
When the feeling isn’t fleeting
And the soul wants to commit
You set my heart to beating
Thanks to you, I’m overheating
Oh, my pilot light is lit
This cliché is worth repeating
It’s been true since our first meeting
I just knew that you were it
You set my heart to beating
When we’re talking, when we’re eating,
When you’re sleeping, all that shit.
You set my heart to beating
This cliché is worth repeating
IF I MAY BE SO BOLD
Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss?
Does he know? Does he know? Does he know? Does he know?
Was it bliss? Was it bliss? Was it bliss? Was it bliss?
Will you break up? Will you dump him? Will you miss
him if he goes? Would he miss you if you go? May I know?
Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss?
Can you kiss him now to make up? Did you kiss and call it quits?
Is this kiss and tell? Can you tell? Will you kiss goodbye and go?
Was it bliss? Was it bliss? Was it bliss? Was it bliss?
Was it worth it? Is it too much? Are there words to justify this?
Can mere words even explain this? Are there gestures to show?
Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss? Did you kiss?
Were the kisses one or many? Were they good as one could wish?
Looking back to when your lips met, does the kiss bring joy or woe?
Was it bliss? Was this bliss? What is this? Is this bliss?
What’s a kiss? What’s a tryst? Are affairs all hit or miss?
As a cheater, are you cheating on yourself or on your beaux?
Is a cheating kiss pure bliss? Is it bliss you might dismiss
When you realize you’re remiss? Did you kiss? Was it bliss?
PORNHOLE
I don’t like myself. I’ve got naught but scorn
for the person who I’ve become just now
You see, I’ve fallen down a hole of porn,
a descent that practically feels inborn.
Can lust be a birth defect? Holy cow,
I don’t like myself. I’ve got naught but scorn
for this horndog habit. I’m bereft, forlorn,
yet I can’t stop looking at dickpicks, nohow.
You see, I’ve fallen down a hole of porn,
and I’m licked where I’m cracked from eve to morn,
I’m deranged by desire, soiled as a sow.
I don’t like myself. I’ve got naught but scorn.
Should I be more pro sex? I’m somewhat torn.
Is this self-loathing strictly middlebrow?
You see, I’ve fallen down a hole of porn,
I can’t get it up. My libido’s worn
out. I’m bark, no bite. I’ve lost my meow.
I don’t like myself. I’ve got naught but scorn
You see, I’ve fallen down a hole…
Bio:
Drew Pisarra is a grantee of the Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation (2019), Curious Elixirs: Curious Creators (2021), and LMCC (2023), Drew Pisarra is the author of three poetry collections: Fassbinder: His Movies, My Poems (2024), Periodic Boyfriends (2023), and Infinity Standing Up (2019). His poetry has appeared everywhere from the Whitney Biennial 2022 to Analog sci-fi magazine.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 