Poetry by Patrick Panageas
After Sex Comes Survey
Your Name: Something to ascribe a warmth to, whether it be tangible or not,
Your Body: I could touch
Your Taste: Blood in cracks
Of My Broken Lips: Consonants & vowels drowning in winter
Your Sinking Boat: I used your tongue as an oar to scoop the blood out
My Sinking Boat: You took mine as yours & told me not to ask
What That Meant: We fucked sad. From nakedness we heaved
Hearts & Holes: Beneath skin we ached to bathe
In Our Organs: Dancing through a field of dew
Dampened Flowers: Our bodies fought to bridge a gap
Fingers Outstretched: In mouths groping tongues & scaling mountains
Of Teeth: Forested in blood & cum you said
Drown: In the cracks of my lips. I panicked & fled
To Your Clit: My chapstick. You couldn’t cum & I kept bleeding
Your Name: From my mouth through cracks in our skin.
Your Name: Something to ascribe a warmth to, whether it be tangible or not,
Your Body: I could touch
Your Taste: Blood in cracks
Of My Broken Lips: Consonants & vowels drowning in winter
Your Sinking Boat: I used your tongue as an oar to scoop the blood out
My Sinking Boat: You took mine as yours & told me not to ask
What That Meant: We fucked sad. From nakedness we heaved
Hearts & Holes: Beneath skin we ached to bathe
In Our Organs: Dancing through a field of dew
Dampened Flowers: Our bodies fought to bridge a gap
Fingers Outstretched: In mouths groping tongues & scaling mountains
Of Teeth: Forested in blood & cum you said
Drown: In the cracks of my lips. I panicked & fled
To Your Clit: My chapstick. You couldn’t cum & I kept bleeding
Your Name: From my mouth through cracks in our skin.
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Patrick Panageas is a mildly furtive poet living in Allston, MA. He thinks too much to sleep so he writes until his body shuts down. He's been lucky enough to wake every day and works as a Sound Engineer, Musician, Bartender, and Writer; doing all with a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hand. Read him in @occulumjournal and tweet him: @PPanageas.
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