The Poet of Unlove


I am a poet of unlove


I wear shades on blind dates,

I would hate to see what you really look like.

When you say let’s talk about love, I expound

on the reproductive habits of reptiles.

I quote stats and not the stars in your eyes.

I am into the shape of your assets, financial,

not physical.


I look away when women check me out.

I am drawn to girls with high foreheads,

it is easier to turn desire into intellectual attraction.

Having many female friends leads to numerous question

marks, the best form of defining a relational status.


I travel alone. I sleep with a stuffed animal.

It ensures the prejudice of being child-like forever

and invokes the notion of siblings, not stray sparks

of nostalgia that conduct metaphors of love.

I live with my parents.


I am a poet of unlove


If love is water, I am always under an umbrella

when it rains. I say love is wax, earwax;

it clogs what you don’t want to hear and causes

infections. I treat love badly; I compare it to loose

underwear, difficult exams, and garbage disposal

operating procedures. I alliterate only for luck and

leave love for lascivious lions wasting want with

wanton wenches


I am a poet of unlove


I go on dating sites and start conversations

about inconsequential interests; hatred of techno,

a love of pancakes and all forms of cranberries.

Call me an apathetic zombie; I’ll do anything but date.


If we are persistent enough to meet, you are more likely

to get an orgasm running on a treadmill or doing crunches

at the gym than by hanging out with me. A kiss comes

only from Hershey’s or your mother, not from me.

And heavy petting, in my opinion, works best

with a woolly sheep at the zoo.


Do not attempt to lure me up to the roof of parking lots,

or curve seductively into the silhouette of streetlights.

I’ll call the police on you and charge you for substance

abuse, because love is a drug, so stop pushing, ringing

my doorbell and waiting to surprise me. You believe

home is where the heart is, but I, I am never home.

Author: Marc

Creative educator. Sometime photographer. Fiddler of words.

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