Subsequent To

art Shang Chengxiang


I’m not interested in teaching ways to love or even how to think it up.


I can’t teach you about sacrifice or about how many times we die in this life while we’re alive raging in this deteriorating flesh.


I want the unreasonable and clever aspects of existence to clinch among the goodness and omitted parts of one another.  I want for them to discover the undiscovered.

I want to be taught and be on the receiving end of the million and one things I don’t know like why roses guard themselves by using thorns or why immortality comes on slow but heavy with disdain.


I won’t allow others to share my prayer rug with me if I love in greater ways than them for I would be unfulfilled at an uneven heel feeling the disgust of unjust.


I don’t want to feel less is more when it’s impossible for me to give in smaller amounts as I evolve.


Dangerous like a Disease of the Skin


I slide my body up and down against the wall, subtle foreplay within the public eye, or behind the private curtains of my shower and pretend it’s you.

What is this frenzy? This fire of insane desire.
The ability to cry without tearing just from observing the field of your view.

Early morning I inhale dreams of what we could be like smoke rising from my coffee, adrenaline on caffeine. Intricate and romantic as if we played the parts of honey bees.

I’m unclear as to what enchantment you cast upon me without true intention, initially under a pale moonlight. Yet I’m certain of what spell I’ve directed onto you with deep impression in sight.

You my dear are provoked like skin to satin.
And you make my days darling similar to carbs that fatten.

What compels me to touch myself even through the plague of my nightmares?
What compels me to call you near my endless thoughts like the Lord’s Prayer?

It’s not over until I declare it is. Rejection is a challenge I take pleasure in.
It’s patience that’s unforgiving. But I’m dangerous like a disease of the skin.