by Emily Cordes | Writing |

Because I Write Poems For Guys I Like - by Emily Cordes

Bad poetry thrives on desire.
Honeytongued dreamers,
more tubercular than lovesick,
flock around the altar of Eros,
clamoring for ambrosial inspiration.
The god tosses scraps to the slobbering minions,
counts the minutes till his cigarette break,
and hopes the sparks won’t scorch his wings this time.

Nonetheless, I must congratulate you:
You’ve joined the illustrious ranks.
Like your predecessors,
fresh-faced, effeminate teen idols
smoldering pirates with great asses
espresso-skinned hockey-playing nymphomaniacs
and tufty-haired yogi boys in pig masks,
you’ve earned a place between my sheets
of paper.

Yeah, I’d like to write
about conventional minutia
like the sunlight filtering through my dorm room window
as you nibbled on my hipbones like a hungry puppy
the Brillo-bristle of your goatee as I ravaged your lips
our legs twisted into who’s-touching-who entanglements,
knots to make a Boy Scout weep.
Or to dwell on pointless anecdotes, like
how we sprawled, dance-sweaty and tequila-tipsy
on the couch after Drag Ball,
(you in Pippi pigtails, I a corseted hussy)
and talked till we fell asleep
side by side.

But that would just be wrong, y’know?
Not “fresh” or “singular”
as my English professor
so articulately – and frequently – buzzworded
the qualities of good writing.

You’re not the first,
and won’t likely be the last
whose dirty jokes give me laughing seizures
whose bear hugs almost knock me over
whose awkwardness makes me want to kiss you even more.

But love poems are, by nature, masturbatory:
and really damn fun.