November 8th 2021

Fourteen Types of Guy Just Dropped

Guy in two rooms, minds.

Guy in four portraits, “by mistake”.

Guy outside a window, looking in.

Guy who hasn’t thought this through: the horizon.

Guy on Starship Enterprise singing, “How the hell’d I get here, Scotty?”

Guy whose wine rides his larynx like slugs’ blood, toasting futures that’re rapping their knuckles on his throat.

Guy who laces tenuous snows along the eyelets of his brother’s birthday Jordans. 

Guy who’s spreading stories only time can untell, raining oceans only skies can unrain, throwing curveballs only supermassive blackholes can unswerve.

Guy across from me on tubes, three times this week, travelling sidesaddle through a mutual dark, a pipe of sound like continuous shrapnel.

Guy whose self-facing camera just revealed to him his eyes because the person who he’s calling sidled into a brighter hall. 

Guy who harbours fantasies of swimming under oilslicks, poking holes among the leathery canopy above, giving the underwater “stars”.

Guy who’s stitched together rage across the gaps in what he’d let himself not know by now.

Guy who is in other senses making the most of ‘it’.

Guy I grew up into then grew right out of, again.

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