Friends of John, Songs I didn’t fuck to

Friends of John
 
 Can’t clear the arterial detritus, nor shake 
 the dull ache
 in the pickled kidneys. They float by my bedside, in piss-golden stasis.
 Was it the seventh, or eighth,
 that was unnecessary?
 
 Or was it the box of detestable straights? 
 If I suck on enough
 can surely asphyxiate
 that cunt 
 inside. 
 
 Unwelcome kickback, from the gear trapped, in the post-nasal drip.
 Clear throat, clear slate, clear skies.
 Hock out clarity; see it dry in the sink.
 
 
 Songs I didn’t fuck to
 
 Funny how
 My participation in coercion 
 Misogyny
 Began to chisel 
 empty veins in my
 (laughable to say, but here we are)
 
 ‘masculinity’
 
 Should probably stop watching porn
 Not exactly a heroic stance, to come to
 Only when it started affecting me 
 
 Well, the dopamine farm 
 exploitative carousel
 absolutely played a part
 Dismemberment of intimacy, trust, 
 another. Much more acute 
 
 She, her, my partner
 (Murakami can’t write about women, either)
 was the amber hum of salt lamps
 the kind that gave temporal space, meaning.
 I used to trace the moles on her back, in that light.
 
 Now it is just me
 and a stranger
 and maybe The Pixies are playing
 but I can’t stomach them, any longer
 and I can’t stand my own nakedness 
 and endeavour(s) to impress someone 
 new