watching interracial pornography on a sunday afternoon
the end of every weekend is a void
a simultaneous beginning
& end
a barely lilac morning
that bleeds into an overcast postmeridian
cloaking the entire city
in an icy but familiar indifference
my eyes opened aching
with an ineffable hunger
some existential longing
to be haphazardly filled
by rippling flesh,
general tso’s tofu,
& whatever was in that roach
in the ashtray
on the coffee table
as my hungover fingers scouredthrough 4 letter acronyms — pawg, thot, milf
my mind wandered back
to how i used to get dressed up
to go to church on sunday mornings
or
why my father was never really around
or
how i’m in my thirties
and there are maybe
30 more years until
catastrophic climate collapse
&
mass extinction
but
why was i not a dad yet?
&
this microwaved tofu
was still cold in the middle.
[the studio lighting refracts wildly
in the oil dripping
off her posterior
accentuating
generous smatterings of cellulite
i’m fleetingly punch drunk
on a parade
of tiger stripes
the aesthetically satisfying contrast
between
the light and dark of
the actors skin tones
is almost picturesque
if not steeped in centuries
of racial mythology
the light and dark
of my emotions
as i seek out
another brief
dopamine drenched
catholic guilt ridden
respite
from our gig economy hellscape]
Martin Bell, also known as postcrunk, is the artist behind acclaimed works such as the 2013 spoken word album “Her Wikipedia Tears Are Blood Diamonds” and 2017 ebook “In Hawai’i Trees Don’t Have Rings Because There Are No Seasons.”
He currently resides by the beach in South Georgia with his lovely wife and fluffy mutt. He balances his time between 35mm photography, bicycling, beatmaking, and, unfortunately, Twitter.