One Poet Says Dogs Can Smell Time

Another says that poppers are gay titctacs
This party is more expensive than dog
We grow like crystals into our parents.
I’m in my hermaphodically sealed room, flaking off.
Stalagmites darting away around me. I absorb the moon, put me there.
I wish to set an intention far away from this sushi bar in Chinatown, where poets
bleed money from their eyes. Oh, you simply must try molly.
Canadian tuxedo burnt hand petting domesticated bird
Picking off dead skin—I VOTED!!
I texted the group chat:
11:00— LOCK IT IN.
Navel fleets during fleet week taking fleet enema
Pooh poohing the idea of toothpick martin.
I open Sniffies to find my future hubby
And all I find is HOLE
A map of HOLE. ETERNITIES
Of Croc and bawls over inundating the senses.
I go into sport mode, eager to chase the night by
It’s fleshy bare tail, glassy as a sun. Plasma stuck
to the inside of my shirt from last night. The map populates
constituents and I can email them all with my cummy little hands.
I’m running for office under the Sniffies party. All the naked torsos with the state
of NEW JERSEY tattooed on their forearm
will join together in one fleshy mass and pokémon cum to the polls and maybe then
I can finish feeling like I did my honda civic duty.

Ry Cook is a Brooklyn based genderqueer bookseller, events manager, and poet whose work specializes in queer mythologies, digital cultures, and curses, and has been published or are forthcoming in It Tupelo Quarterly, Thimble Lit Mag, the Nightboat Blog, No Dear Mag, the Poetry Project’s Footnotes Series, and Hot Pink Mag. They also work as an Events Host for McNally Jackson Bookstore, an events manager for Futurepoem, as well as work as a Program Associate for the Flow Chart Foundation. Currently, they are working on a chapbook about Cringe.