Upper Manhattan
by N.S.
He greets me
pock-marked and flocked with thin hair and
moving like pitch in a glass he
shows me his paintings and
two grand pianos I
try to touch him show him I mean it and
something in him sticks to me.
as we’re fucking my
eyes wander to history books
and yellow wallpaper and
moles and veins this
is almost archaeological
thoughts like gnats
flutter out of my ears saying I’m
doing him a favor but I
can feel him sticking to me and
I almost shed a tear or
throttle him
after
I creep into cold New York sunlight with
a wad of cash in my hand
ringing like a bell
N.S. is a community college student and painter. His poetic and painting practices explore queerness, frivolity, and failure. When he isn’t painting or writing, he sometimes works at a church.