John is a 22 year
old amateur writer from the forests of Maryland who spends his days chasing
an elusive B.A. in Molecular Biology and putting out poetic pantsfires.
View the rest of the poems from John Smith in the April
by John Smith
I'm bad with names.
Tell me yours. Tell me mine. Forget it.
Friends? An awkward, professional smile
is formed with question mark confusion
and a dimple of feeling at the end. Which end?
Forget it. Our 69 sense isn't publishable
but flows eternal in private.
Whatever. Let's start again. Pick three letters
from the velvet scrabble bag. Doesn't matter
if they're spelled the same
as long as the handle is different
and P-L-E-A-S-A-N-T-R-I-E-S can be layed out
on the next "TRIES" of a doctored picture.
50 bonus points. Not bad. Then again
this is writing, not loving, and
you'd be all fucked up if I
crawled up over this table
to scrawl my mark
a heart-shaped boundary
where names are stylized and
So, let's make up
a new term for this, okay?
We've got sleeper titles to sell