Tag: sex

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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blind corners

or, you definitely do not need to vomit in the punch bowl like that Kirsten Dunst movie thanks

A poem.

when he thinks of the top
ten-percent of his thoughts,
beyond getting high,

beyond getting off,

beyond suppressing the weirdo’s muck,
he probably considers what he’s given away
over and above a fuck.


and no, he’s not talking about his virginity 
but stuff.


just,
things.
the kind he can never get back sort of stuff.

even though he still buys it three times over sort of
stuff.
marvel at the kind-of-a-one collection nobody
wanted, cared for, or asked about stuff.
it’s embarrassing to even bring up.
the things and the stuff.


the same for acquaintances he’s accidentally
blown pot smoke in the
faces of

with their coming around blind corners.
if it really meant something then it wouldn’t have sundered.

//wd 5.14.2026

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A&B Sound, Boxing Day ’96

A poem.

a bald spot,
some weight –
still the same.


same-ish.
enough to have a moment in line.

enough to actually watch the clip show
they usually skip from season twenty-one
as their memory rewinds.
they’re dodging peripherals from behind:
a behind they once knew better blind

but they don’t really want to catch up
if it is,

nor they them
they’re assuming,
after the decision both were ruminating:
that neither wanted to wipe the other
in either’s autumn monogamy.

oh hey, what’s changed?
a bald spot,
some weight,

overall still the same.

//wd 4.27.2026

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400 Words on: Wuthering Heights (2026)

or, “Rated X for Pervasive Ankle”:
A spoiler-free mini movie review.

1.5 out of 5

Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” (aka. WH) is a thesis paper just waiting for a would-be advertising graduate.

Had Warner’s marketing team been forthright and sold it for what it is – a chamber piece in the vein of 2017’s “My Cousin Rachel” – I think I would have appreciated Fennell’s flourishes more, however awkwardly they abet a tame, period-correct adaptation of the Brontë novel.

Instead, WH was hustled as a Ken Russell-esque decent into debauchery, with an eye-catching trailer that spoke to the sensibilities of someone raised on the titillation of late-night cable erotica. People suck their dirty 18th century fingers, with Margot Robbie appearing to return to her bratty-nutjob roots. ‘Come Undone’, tempts the poster. Yes, please!

Expectations that stratospheric are unsustainable. While WH is as professional a product as an episode of “Bridgerton”, it lacks consistent, distinguishing texture: whether that be with more visual depictions of sexuality; singer Charli XCX’s anachronistic pop we only hear a couple of times to orchestrate montages; or the stop-motion hairwork titles, seen once & never again.

[cont’d]

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