Your tempo’s gonna go and roll me ‘till I say something about it. Resentment for the hollow man that you persist you ran campaign on. God bless the fag— Soul: the flag wrapped in gauze; the bleed recedes
up the neck, down your mouth. The brochure— The gram reborn when I’m in town. Monday brunch. It was always spring for you. Glorifying bud. You: scrubbed blood, penny nickel fund.
The gays, yes, we gays, not gay enough, spoil your rich ass kiki— Swap those pumps for your slickest converse. Catch your clique when we dare exist and y’all disperse. When I say come up I mean promise. Goddess is too good for us. Take your sand bath—watch you rust while you’re dreaming. The flames ain’t shit to a demon. Say my name.
Tyler Moore is a queer writer and recent graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison with degrees in Digital Cinema Production and Creative Writing with a focus in fiction but an equal passion for poetry. He has been published previously in journals such as Lumiere Review, Wrongdoing, Sheepshead Review, and Illumination Journal. Awards and honors include the Phillip H. Wang Memorial Prize in Poetry and the Eudora Welty Fiction Thesis Prize. In his spare time he enjoys playing the saxophone and creating digital art. Twitter: @TylerRMoore1; Instagram: @tyler_rmoore.