Three Poems

You are listening to Bowie in bed, thinking about the hollows
Of his eyes, his lunatic little hand jigs, longing for Berlin in the seventies.
You are thinking of masturbating but the vibrator’s batteries are low
And the plasticine-pink stick rotates leisurely in your palm,
Casting its space-age glow into the winter shadows.

This collection of three poems is simple, and seems to be speaking to persons who are active in the 2010s. At the worst of times, the book seems to try and say "Love me!", as with this:

You are slightly disappointed in Obama’s domestic policy,
You think the great American novelist is David Foster Wallace.
The epigraph to The Pale King is from Frank Bidart,
It is about pre-existing forms and formal questions in art.

And as you are dancing in a suit skirt to the Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’,
Feeling the anthem soar and rise, he makes the PowerPoint slides

I can't help but feel that this book lacks details which speaks to or with, rather than at me.

You are listening to Bowie in bed, thinking about the hollows
Of his eyes, his lunatic little hand jigs, longing for Berlin in the seventies.
You are thinking of masturbating but the vibrator’s batteries are low
And the plasticine-pink stick rotates leisurely in your palm,
Casting its space-age glow into the winter shadows.

This collection of three poems is simple, and seems to be speaking to persons who are active in the 2010s. At the worst of times, the book seems to try and say "Love me!", as with this:

You are slightly disappointed in Obama’s domestic policy,
You think the great American novelist is David Foster Wallace.
The epigraph to The Pale King is from Frank Bidart,
It is about pre-existing forms and formal questions in art.

And as you are dancing in a suit skirt to the Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’,
Feeling the anthem soar and rise, he makes the PowerPoint slides

I can't help but feel that this book lacks details which speaks to or with, rather than at me.

You are listening to Bowie in bed, thinking about the hollows
Of his eyes, his lunatic little hand jigs, longing for Berlin in the seventies.
You are thinking of masturbating but the vibrator’s batteries are low
And the plasticine-pink stick rotates leisurely in your palm,
Casting its space-age glow into the winter shadows.

This collection of three poems is simple, and seems to be speaking to persons who are active in the 2010s. At the worst of times, the book seems to try and say "Love me!", as with this:

You are slightly disappointed in Obama’s domestic policy,
You think the great American novelist is David Foster Wallace.
The epigraph to The Pale King is from Frank Bidart,
It is about pre-existing forms and formal questions in art.

And as you are dancing in a suit skirt to the Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’,
Feeling the anthem soar and rise, he makes the PowerPoint slides

I can't help but feel that this book lacks details which speaks to or with, rather than at me.