he treads lightly along the shore
in his shitty hometown
and the ocean licks his shins gentle as a first fuck
seashells cutting the papery soles
of his twenty-something feet.

donning his torn corduroy jacket
he walks the beach praying to a cigarette
and kneels in worship of girls who turn his stomach,
knowing he would swallow them whole if he could
and what’s more,
they’re just as ravenous as him.

he breathes Hemingway and
exudes Plath’s heavy torture;
damned if he doesn’t want a tongue down his throat
while he quotes them.

he’s all alone
but never lonely
the air is dripping with salt
and the wind possesses him with
a gust of French kiss;
solitude does not stifle the impulses
of starving young men.

the sand sinks into itself
the way his belly cowers beneath his ribcage,
and he lies down as if all his bones are snapped:
open-casket sleepy angel
he’d be even more beautiful dead.

when he wakes in the morning
the sun gnaws at his pale flesh,
so he christens his atheist forehead
in the acid-spitting sea

and he looks like he gets his hands dirty
looks like he could kill with that body so wicked,
so evil when he’s screwing;
I look up at him from the floor
down on my knees, and tell him
well,

I’d rather be with you.

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