A Poem

I put my queer shoulder to the wheel 

so often that I no longer think 

of my shoulder as a shoulder

or my body as more than part

of the wheel. I hate that I’m alluding

to Ginsberg, but who knows how long

it’ll be before I suck another cock

& here I am in my room conjuring

the ghost of cocksuckers past. 

The thing about being the wheel

is that you turn so much your whole

world is just turning, you forget 

about breathing or hunger or touch,

you’re just a fucking wheel & your function

is to function. When Ginsberg said

the thing about queer shoulders 

and wheels he never said if we get off. 

It’d be easy to make a joke about getting off, 

but I’m dying & I’m deleting my browser history

& I don’t want anyone to explain sissy hypnosis

to my family. I got high and looked into

the legality of self-written wills and without

witnesses everything’s pretty shaky

so I need you to promise that my family

won’t find out about sissy hypnosis from you.

The narrative conceit of a sissy hypnosis

video is that the viewer is working towards

the goal of being totally submissive to men.

It’s pretty depressing that my fantasies 

require labor, but my shoulder is here

and the wheel is there and I just want

a hand on my shoulder so badly

that I’ll put it to that wheel and turn

fruitlessly, knowing it won’t respond.

I know that this is theoretically a newsletter you signed up for because you wanted to see what I was writing about music, and I may be getting back into that soon, but I wrote a poem and wanted to share it. Hope y’all are well.