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Poetry tends to get a bad rap in our culture, for its obtuseness, its inaccessibility and its pesky habit of making us think and feel things we might not want to think or feel. When you’re struggling with your sexuality or identity or finding the right words to explain your heart.“we all nourish truth with our tongues” by Dorothy Allison I learned then that what no one would saywas the thing about which nothing could be done.Yet poetry has the capacity to be the most life-changing of the arts. If they would not say Lesbian I could not say pride. If you don't photo well and don't look like captain America, getting a match is hard enough.... I started with something creative, and she appreciated it.but even when you do match, how to do you spark their interest. Whenever I have the energy and time, and I see a girl I've matched with that has something special about her, I like to try a poem....Well to those girls, I say it's tough out there for a guy.You probably are special, but for us we need to do a mixture of putting in effort, but not too much effort that we get exhausted that 90% of girls usually never reply, and a huge fraction of girls that do lose interest, and a scary fraction of girls who actually agree to a date don't show up.... Only by meeting face to face can you determine how compatible you guys are - determine chemistry - but we need that chance first.
When you are in the first blush of love and you want to shout it from the rooftops.“Steps" by Frank O’Haraoh god it’s wonderfulto get out of bedand drink too much coffeeand smoke too many cigarettesand love you so much6. When you find yourself thinking, “You know, there really aren’t enough poems about blow jobs.”“The Platonic Blow” W. Auden I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow, And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue. When you’re a queer gal who is tired of people asking you how “lesbian sex” works."Haiku" by Anna Pulley (Shameless plug! Mostly we are worrying aboutthe fuel bill and how to pay the taxesand whether the diet is workingwhen the moment of vulnerabilitylights on the nose like a blue mothand flitters away through clouds of mosquitoesand the humid night. I hate them as I hate sex,the man’s mouthsealing my mouth, the man’sparalyzing body—and the cry that always escapes,the low, humiliatingpremise of union—In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answerfused in one soundthat mounts and mounts and thenis split into the old selves,the tired antagonisms. I don't know if it's because I'm fussy or I'm in the absolute wrong area for meeting girls.Anything that helps isolate girls that have fire and passion in life however, is helpful.I occasionally feel vague howvague idon’t know tenuous Now-spears and The Then-arrows making doour mouths something red, something tall2. And on the verge of this horizon’s indifference, I watch as a ship slips into the distance. You’dwhisper that word into my earas if it were a thing you could taste —a sliver of fish, a swirl of chocolateon the tongue.When you’re trying to convince someone to go on a date with you. R.“Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes” by Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell She was no longer that woman with blue eyeswho once had echoed through the poet’s songs,no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,and that man’s property no longer. …And your voicecomes back to me through the trees, this wordfor what we couldn’t help but doto each other — a thin cry, unwinding.21.