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Beau Sia


there is no force
against loneliness
or hearts.

as least,
not in the realm of

physics does not
include love.

but chemistry does.

are you getting

my funny metaphors

then decipher
bichromium fluoride,

that wasn't a nice word

to write,
but i'm alone
in the world
and can take
certain liberties.


I think love is the most beautiful thing

in the world,
and I don't give a fuck,
because I have no original ideas.

I'm a pathetic man

whose goal is to read poetry
in order
to get women
to fall in love with him,
and you'd think I was reprimanding myself
and revealing my horrible dark side
by saying that,
but I was really saying
"women who hear this, fall in love with me, or else,"
because that's what it comes down to --
an ultimatum,
life or death,
and sure, maybe I'm being extreme,
but you walk around and tell me
that things aren't extreme,
I've seen a man jack off to a gap window display,
so don't tell me that love isn't important.

and maybe you didn't get that series of lines,

that's OK,
most of them are subtext
designed to impress people
who know too much about art,
all you need to listen to is
the 12 percent
which contain words like "fuck,"
and "ass,"
and "ride my dongstick, you naughty schoolgirl."
because in a poem about love
we all need to know the relevant things,
because we're all looking for the complete definition of love,
if only we could open our encyclopedia brittanicas
and look up love and know,
but love isn't that easy.

they say cupid loved my so called life

and when the show was cancelled
cupid cried and cried and cried and
decided that he was going to fuck up
all of humanity,
and this is why china has a trouble with its birthrate
and arkansas rhymes with date rape
and iraq is iraq,
and the fat lipo-sucked out of california
could be
its own island.
but this isn't a poem about geography,
this is a poem about love,
the bane of my existence,
the reason why I hate valentine's day
and halloween,
which is about ghosts
and I think you know where I'm going here.
I'm going to the land of girlfriends of halloweens past,
and maybe I've only got three ghosts in this land,
but this doesn't mean that they don't bring their friends,
who are the ghosts of girls who have rejected me,
because girls rarely travel alone in this land
. lydia is from this land.

I used to kiss her

while listening to
the cure's "just like heaven,"
now I don't see her anymore,
so that song makes me sad,
why must we associate music with
our love lives?
I'm not trying to be profound here,
I'm just saying that music really takes me
back, way back,
and I can't explain the memory process involved in that,
because I am not a psychology major,
and maybe
my problem with picking up women
has to do with me always asking,
"what's your major?"
but that only makes me as cheesy
as 90 percent of guys
looking for women,
and 86 percent of them have women,
so what's the deal here?
maybe I shouldn't think of women in terms
of picking them up,
and maybe I should open up my sensitive side,
but really,
the sensitive side sucks.
I've been there.
you can only imagine the kinds of sweaters
they make you wear.
it's not fair,
love is not fair,
and war is not fair,
and I don't care what anyone has to say about
any of that,
I feel unloved,
I'm sorry I need people
to tell me I'm cool,
I'm just that way.
aren't you?
am I the only one?
I know that I can't be that

but you don't want to

understand me!
you just want to hear the part
where I talk about my small dick again,
because the asian man will always be plagued
by this rumor
until he is brave enough to fling it out
and say,


this is not the direction

I wanted to take
this poem.
honestly, I just want to be in the arms
of my true love, in a house, in a room,
in a wonderful, perfect world with our
two children,
a boy and a girl,
helga and lamar,
but maybe I shouldn't have said this,
woody allen taught us
that marriage is a death trap.

I'm almost as old as his girlfriend.

she could be the long lost sister
I've been looking for,
maybe my mother gave her away
when we lived in china,
wait, I never lived in china.
I think I've begun lying in this poem.
I was hoping to talk about love
for 3.4 minutes
and then
come to a conclusion,
somehow defining love
within the poem,
I don't have any answers
and I'm looking for help from anyone,
because love has got me fucked up
and dying,
because I feel retarded without anyone to hold me,
and maybe that's sentimental,
but what's wrong with sentimental?

I just need love --

to self: fuck you, I'm OK!

you see, I can't even decide what I need

much less understand what I'm saying.
you see, all I'm saying
someone love me.

the color of scarves

your lyrics make it hard

to hear folk songs.

I am haunted by
what I remember of your hugs.

my hand misses
the bottom of your back,
where your ass begins.

who breaks up
with their soulmate?

we are in a movie.
we see the same moon
from different cities.

our emails are a tragedy-

they reveal our pride too well.

I can't escape
avoiding the places
you disapprove of.
I'm as lost as that last line.

you infect my poetry readings.

no one is allowed to have a crush on me.

I want to let go of you,

but the problem is
I already have.

fantasy p

you crassly keep my imagination going.

in a bar your laugh

the sadness of why
everyone's really there.

I want to stop your breathing.

I want you to cluck me

like you would a horse.

make me go the speed you want.

make me the man

you need.

you won't change me,

you'll just get love
and new year's eve kissing.

stop accidentally touching my thigh

unless you mean it.

and you don't have to

tell me about other men-
I know
you're gorgeous.

my stare is more than listening.

it's intention
and desire.
we need to fuck the old
that is creeping into
our system.

we need to be
here now.

and that's why on Saturday

you will come to me.
without having read
this poem.

maybe it'll be
my man musk.

maybe it'll be
and revelation.

maybe it'll be
one last shot of whiskey
before we hop into a cab

but you
will wake up next to me

I’m So Deep

I'm so deep
the words of the prophet leaks
from my anus

I'm so deep
the metaphorical public swimming pool of my mind
is all deep end

I'm so deep
every word every word I speak
is a metaphor including "and","is",and "every"

I'm so deep
pointing to my brain magnifies
the value of my words 327 fold
I'm so deep
the words "I'm so deep" aren't a hook
they're a mantra

I'm sooo deep

I can find the corndog
in the platinum rap single
of your mind

And when I say I'm deep like

a pre-war communist,
or deep like an exotic fruit spoken of loudly,
or deep like the sound of one but cheek laughing,
you just have to shut-up
(remember the mantra words)
and say "that mo-fuh's hella deep yawl!"

Because I am deeper than sense.

I made not knowing the answer

always the answer.

My silence is deep

I have deep underwear

and my balls get lost in them

I'm so deep
I'm like the iceberg
that let another iceberg
sink the titanic

question: what does that last metaphor mean?

Answer: I'm too deep to give you the clues.

I'm so deep I'm like the carpenter of deep

I'm so deep I have like the combined DNA of all the great "deeps" before me

I'm so deep "3" is "4"

I'm so deep my cock is shaped like Merlin
I'm so deep that the wind..............

the end of the poem is really
just the beginning

crush poem .3
by beau sia

bjork hugs the length

of my spine
and i am daydreaming brunch
with you.

the silly combination of mimosas

and confessions.

i want to give you

my undeveloped smiles.

i'm having
a hard time focusing.

your touch is a memory

my imagination has made
ever present.

i'm trying to impress you

with words
when i should let go
of guarded statement
just listen.

let your glance

move me how it will.

let my hips react

to your statements
i am home alone,
pretending to talk to you
in the mirror.

at this point i see a painting.

fill it with what you want,

i have trusted you since
we sang our first song together.

are you swooning yet?

like i do when i'm told

you might be there.

my feet are so used to

almost losing their balance
because of you.

i don't know anything

about love.

help me.

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