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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.

Picture
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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