Fifteen Minutes of Sloppy Love
Sixty Second Love Poems
I.
she was sleepy,
half-awake,
exhausted,
hung over,
and I was all those things
and
heartbroke,
miserable,
and soaking wet.
“we said goodbye, already, last night”
and she gave me a final hug,
the obligatory kiss on the cheek
“that’s it”
she said,
and turned and walked away
I threw my cigarette into
the dirty rainwater
and walked
the opposite direction
it was.
II.
November’s a good time
to get drowned
and be lonesome
sometimes it’s the rain
but usually,
it’s the whisky
and all these goddamn memories.
III.
Love is so much like herpes
every time you think
you’ve dealt with it
and moved on
it flares right up,
all over again.
IV.
Being alone is easier
than most people give it credit
You never have to share
all the things you love
the most
ice cream,
cigarettes,
bed,
penis.
V.
There’s a joke on the internet
“every time you masturbate
God kills a kitten”
I’d rather masturbate,
every time I fall in love
God kills me.
VI.
I haven’t written poetry
in years
because there’s only so many words
you can nail together
about love,
lust,
cigarette smoke,
bourbon,
red wine,
&
heartbreak
and only so many jokes you can tell
before you realize
no one’s laughing.
VII.
She was a few years older,
many magnitudes richer,
had a young daughter,
&
a rock n’ roll band
I was
quite insane,
hardly writing,
drinking my weight
in whiskey,
&
talking too much about
revolution
&
politics
for anyone to be comfortable
and it lasted less than a month
but there was thirty seconds on the fifth night
when we ran the city streets
hand-in-hand
&
fucked shit up.
Yeah,
it was worth it.
VIII.
How can you write love poetry
and not listen to country music,
baby?
Oh.
Dumb question.
When you have the second,
the first is more or less
useless.
IX.
Every night
is another test
working where all the beautiful women
come out to play
in almost nothing at all.
But the fat ones,
the fat ones make it so much easier
to resist.
X.
The phone’s ringing and the wind’s blowing
smoking my last cigarette
while I pour my first
glass of wine,
I’m painting this scene
in low, mournful music,
and better memories
of you
and no matter how many times you call,
you can’t have this album back,
bitch.
XI.
Sick of listening
to people talk about
how rap demeans women
I work in a nightclub,
women are doing a fine job
of demeaning themselves
without any help from
50 Cent
XII.
Truth be told,
I’m only misogystic
when I’m sleeping alone.
XIII.
I was tracing patterns on her skin,
following the twisted curvature
of her spine
talking in the dark with the stereo
playing softly
so romantic,
just us and the moonlight
and the warmth of our skins
me,
struggling to remember her name.
XIV.
It isn’t forgetting their names,
that’s not what makes me
unromantic.
It’s listening to them talk.
XV.
It’s been getting harder
no longer quite so fearless,
unafraid of pain,
loss,
loneliness
no longer rushing
in
only to be ushered
out
I’ve been keeping myself
to myself
playing it close to the chest
keeping everything tight
inside,
trying to protect
what little I’ve got left
I’m a writer goddammit,
what’s left still pumping warm blood
through non-black heart
has to be kept
safe
&
secure
but,
truly,
it isn’t going cold with age
that bothers me
it’s the lies.
Like telling every pretty girl
I met,
I write beautiful love poetry
XXX
Christian Black writes beautiful love poetry.
