I have poor taste in subject matter

I have disallowed myself to write any new poems until everyone in the multiverse reads all of my old and as-yet-unpublished bunkum.

Superduper Very Lots

(she'll get over it if I change the subject)

Tyle dryhumps an obelisk of Michelobs,
smeared with door light from Beale's fridge,
but no one will call him a homosexual.
We trust his thirst to the fainting point.

(i bought her these infamous headphones)

Kill's girl was just up here for him:
she had a ratchet set and a CD. Things
need to be firmed and heard. Men with
aviator glasses couldn't put it better.

(she was never awkward under dock gulls)

Case is drunk, running round in boxer shorts
and a Santa hat. We've arranged this
homecoming party: a pedestal's involved.
I'm always between saviors and Slurpees.

(i once thought she was better than cereal)

I pass out in the shower stall with a
me phone and the confidence that next to
me someone is wearing a tutu and around
me people are expecting superduper very lots.

(like anything, we are small and rarely upright)