Voicemail Poems

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. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems