bedfellows magazine
  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP
Picture
Picture
Picture
Fuckboy
​My friend loved just breathing in the bathhouse
with long meandering weave of thoughts while

                                                     a lonely man moaned lost into the linoleum.

I bought him earrings made of black lava stone.

One of my first Christmas

gifts and that    was
                                                    not until I was 33.                          Small penises are

such tender thumbs. He wouldn't kiss me in the bar we were
regulars at and he's the gay                                     one. I've given up

believing there is order to the world. We both want black
women and kids                           I experiment because that's

what                               exploring                           black                   men

are. An experiment in
how can a self-interest release in the degrees
between your mouth and a gun.

He loves black men. I leaning over him in Texas
watching the       build of his      joy. The only name I

​have is experiment. And I just want
everyone to come, not by me necessarily but

at least
I want to know about it. That everyone ruptures someday

             build of the
disappearing this harsh view of a world. Sunday light
​
Unconscious. Toothy smile.

Never Talk About Your Pain or X

The wall around my face
is made of gorilla glass 4, west philly and walnut crown molding.

I had a detached retina installed
in the west wing when I was depressed. I am gloriously broken and soprano

honest chaos all my songs. None of them are yours but I love
the tilt of your head when they spring a picture of a play doe smashed clumsily

on to the Sunday funny pages. You are the gloriously asymmetric. A
stubborn weed broad treed unkept and animal. I am not a fan of landscaping.

I like armpit hair. I always show up undressed. My chest is full
and blushed every sentence. I am the smallest possible dense, the ant, man

and the dirt is where my riches lay. I want to be rich and mulched
into your childhood redwood base a millisecond of your tears angle. A tear in space time

is a small glitch where our lips lie and the lies are not small enough if you have to half it
half it in half and half of my rib and a half my things and half my brain

​is yours but never
the sky.

Picture
BACK TO LITTLE BLACK BOOK
Proudly powered by Weebly
  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP