Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle

Ocean waves lick the shore,

bringing back soft-serve sand—

white, foamy, salty and sweet—

light percolating like soda.

My balcony is a cool and dark island

like sunglasses.

sunset was long ago.

yet I am bright,

the glow from my screens

lights me up, body ablaze.

I run around my room

trying to explode.

There is no victimless crime.

there is always a mess.

a mess is a living thing:

one is born from another.

ecstasy comes with more strings,

more ecstasy,

and a giant fucking mess

to be swept away.

There is a heavy silence

that constricts the whole world.

it can only be seen

in the gentle tick of a second’s hand.

Men love beer. Men love women.

a chance to escape themselves

is a magnetic riptide.

isolation is habit-forming, addictive

performing is a man’s language,

and bowing is a father’s art.

You keep me here.

Caught in the mouth of a pelican.

I am free in my mind, which is larger

and more enticing than any food,

sexual act or business conglomerate.

I love myself and you cannot have me,

I was born from something similar

and one day the ocean

will lick me back.