Tag: men

no one grieves the creepy guy

(except by those he is survived)

A poem.

super sexy walking by
in black leggings and knee-highs:
a fantasy you can’t replicate with AI
on a busy esplanade at lunchtime –
creepy guy
creepy guy
here comes the creepy guy

working beside him
big brown eyes,
an HR complaint he can’t remise –
who needs a degree to flip french fries?
creepy guy
creepy guy
look out for the creepy guy

he’s coming for you
and all the nice cutes
and he doesn’t care for society’s rules,
and he isn’t rude
and could be a friend
but his dick is the voice on his shoulder
and says,
dashing guy!
stalwart guy!
play with me now, you virile guy!
touch me and make wings with
my loose sack skin, my guy! and
don’t think about anything else
ever or
die, because
everything else pales in comparison to
the needs and the wants of the
creepy guy
creepy guy

now he’s a senior guy
looking down on a wrinkly, folded-up,
catheterized guy
in the low-income wing of the old folks’ home
standing over his floor’s coed throne pondering
days bygone,
still touching his wiener
and still all alone

“because the sacrifice for believing every woman was his
is that now he can’t take a straightforward piss.”

//wd 6.12.2026

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Malin is aware of the concerns.

A poem.







that little bit of marbling showing;

the short denim hem on the
mannequin, barely concealing the

curves, and
craters, and ageless bruising –
says to the weak man,
the spread is open on statutory holidays.


the modern masculine vernacular still contains
the phrase “she’ll be hotter when she’s older,

you have to look at the
mother”
cautions the Caucasian-loving mixed-race Meat Cutter to the
White apostle, while they

dump the fifty-pound plastic bucket of cleaved cuts
into the

grinder, with their
necks
one thousand degrees to the
cellophane, non-ergonomically
prevailing over this shared domain.

//wd 5.31.2026

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tomatoes, potatoes

A poem.

television permits us its
unassailable truths
as escapism:

generic hygienic,
purposeless youth
earn first-meets and whole Fridays with
ten-star heartbreaks in waiting –
despite the real world red flags that
demoing all your breakfast doth bring –


and they look into their eyes as the whales coo

and a fight ensues,
because each assumes what side of the tracks
the other derives,
as often occurs at the end of act two


and he’s home
middle-aging
with the before-bed Pringles in his hand ruminating,
“when was the last time that ever happened to me?”

the good parts, he means,
forgetting or not acknowledging what’s already been.

//wd 4.2.2026

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ain’t no way

A poem.

where did she goooo?
…
mah luuuv-ly?

ah wanna nooooo…
wh-r do u whar do u goooo?


“what?”

i’m talkin’ ‘boute that one renter,
you know,
with the smokin’ hot bod
and the mini pincher dog,
who we only ever saw
when they’d test the fire alarm?


the babe, not the dog.


h-h-h-ho-ho-way
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
“who’re you
yammering about now,
hm?
i told you the girl at Jasper’s funeral was
probably twelve.
it’s the GMOs in the food:
that’s why rule of sevens, dude.”

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