Ruminations On Love, & Fucking Poets

by A.g Synclair

I knew this girl

when I had that blue Camaro

when I hung copper wire out my bedroom window

to pick up far off jazz stations on my shortwave

before sex

could kill you.

she called herself

a poet

so I fucked her

on the dirty bathroom floor

of a wood paneled fern bar

left over from the 1970's.

the kind of place

where any dumb fucker could get laid

as long as you were clean

and bought Black Russians

for girls who would fuck guys

that would fuck girls like them.

which was better than not fucking

on a Saturday Night

when the world was cumming all over each other

and the only other option

was jerking off in the Ihop bathroom

or pancakes.

sometimes

I see her in front of the Haymarket

drinking coffee

selling homemade chapbooks

and broadsides

to old hippies.

someone told me

she got published

she got published

received a check for two-hundred dollars

and five contributor copies

of New Voices in Contemporary Poetry.

I've read her poetry

and just between you and me

I'm betting

New Voices in Contemporary Poetry

-like simple submission guidelines-

cumming together

and love

is only

an illusion.


A.g Synclair's work has appeared in numerous literary magazines, poetry publications, anthologies, and chapbooks, both online and in print. He drinks way too much coffee, suffers from long bouts of writers block, and greatly admires the work of Billy Collins and Charles Bukowski. He lives and writes in Western Massachusetts.
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
A.g Synclair: I went an entire day without masturbating to amputee midget porn.