To hate yourself and have sex

makes you a movie director

on a street corner, seeing

everything in slow motion,

scouting for bodies.

When it’s too dark to see

we clock out to edit

more. After work, every night

becomes dance. Re-cuts

of thighs and light shows.

A supercut is a cheap haircut, not filmmaking technique.

But I know montage because I put movement

over belonging, dwell only in breath, each a one-time use.

Montages aren’t romantic.

They are light shot through crashing

tunnel, excess draped in scarcity. No,

there aren’t many rhythms to curl up inside.

But why luxuriate in memory?

Rewind us. I am radiation. I’m giving

off so much light. I can’t stop working.

I can’t sleep. I’m out in nightclubs, searching.

Burning for it.

Someone that knows how not to hate me.

Someone that can teach me how.

————————————–

Ankoor Patel called us from San Francisco, CA.

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