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Literature Details
Published:  June 1, 2005
Print:  Printable PDF

Author Details
Author:  Erin Lynch
Erin Lynch is a poet from the Dallas, TX area. She is currently trying to finish her bachelor's degree in literature while working at a coffee shop.
5 Poems
by Erin Lynch
Beginnings Are Usually Ridiculous

“How many women have you loved?”
“All of them”
“How many?”
“In a figurative sense? 43.”
“You filthy bastard.”
“3. And 43. And you, madam saint?”
“2. And 3.”
“How quaint.”
“Go to hell.”
“We’ll add numbers there, I’m sure.”
“It’s inescapable.”
“Each other? It’s inevitable.”
“4. And 44.”
“3. And 44.”
“4. And 43, if anything.”
“You raging alcoholic.”

Untitled, For Now

There is neither reason nor logic to love such as ours
And for this alone, do I believe things –nay life
Shall come to pass as it should
Should I were a perfect angel and he a perfect philosopher,
The night is too warm and this artificial light
Too vaguely extraneous on my skin
For a reality falling as it may
To seem like a decently wise truth to be my future.
Oh, be of some grave vanity
That I sought refuge so far from his mouth
And he so far from mine!
The truth of the night is this:
Two escapes did only lead to two paths divulging back into one
And for this I am eternally grateful
To the overseer of which direction
The wind shall tomorrow take me

When I thought: I am at my wit’s last end
In all actuality I knew neither my wits
Nor the parameters they were held in by
Daily, though, I am learning the boundaries
And ulterior motives of mine own heart, more & more

And for whatever reason, I continue to turn the corner with wide eyes,
Diligence & the slightest hint, maybe: shadow, of bewilderment chasing my very step.


Kill the envious moon, he did
And then I, with such force,
Broke through the Castile blackness
Of our rhythm to explore
Space and motion and the connection
Of our greed and stomachs’ knots
As you avoided nondescript tithes
Of romance and cliché,
With our shadow swinging in
The twelve to three hundred or so
Degrees of members’ natural form

The collision still holds the pump
War(r/n/m)ing me from inside


Sex is brutal
It’s fake
It’s full
It’s cruel
It’s rarely sweet
It’s mostly psychological
It’s usually regular
Usually mediocre
It’s ridiculous
It’s his passion
It’s monotonous
It’s funny
Sex comes from behind
It’s rarely kissing
It’s felching
It’s head
It’s upsidedownsideways
It’s rarely extraordinary
It’s hardly making love
It’s usually dirty
It’s filthy
It’s fucking

It’s just another game we were taught at five

On New Year’s Eve

Fat, red lips
Orange hair
(You know the kind)
She whips around
That hair flies everywhere
Plump finger points
Thick eyebrow climbs
The clock’s nearly at 12
She comes toward me
Starving tornado
Fury filled lion
There’s two or three of her
Throat raw with fire
Lights so bright
She grabs my head
Cocks it to the side
A beer flooded tongue
Rips those good time feelings
Of intoxication right out
“Fucker, I am not a lesbian.”
She smiled, “I know.”