At Joan’s – A Poem by Frank O’Hara

I sit at the marble top
sorting poems, miserable
the little lamp glows feebly
I don’t glow at all

I have another cognac
and stare at two little paintings
of Jean-Paul’s, so great
I must do so much
or did they just happen

the breeze is cool
barely a sound filters up
through my confused eyes
I am lonely for myself
I can’t find a real poem

if it won’t happen to me
what shall I do


A musical inferno

Of broken glass and empty bars.

Dead hours, thinking of

Adventures lost, in far-away lands –

Lost, along with that ultimate innocence.

A flimsy thing – a delicate film, disintegrated

In strangers’ hands.


My euphoric insomniac

with a weak heart.


Side by side, weightless in static air.

Inertia of the sun on our skin,

and of your cat-like pleasure; your green eyes,

drinking in  my lingering gaze.

Locked in an endless embrace,

we never meet

this side of paradise.

Men I’ve Loved By Lara Konrad

The times I’ve deliberately continued

to play the game

of crushing after realizing

the final purpose of

some or many men,

the only way I’d keep them a little longer

alive by my side.

(Men from all languages, men who own a house by the beach, men who sometimes don’t have money to take the subway home, men who don’t have a home, men whose faces and bodies are utopian, men who’ve taught me, men who can’t spell, men who’ve aged badly, men who know everything, men who give me books, men who confuse love with lust, men who confuse lust with love, men who claim themselves poets, men who change my life, men who dress well, men who read terrible things, men who listen to opera, men who love the idea of me, men who send me pictures of their road trip, men who send me pictures of their naked chest, men who fethisize my youth, men who want to buy me dinner, men who know how to cook, men who know how to fuck, men who smell like men, men who don’t smell, men who are never alone, men who know how to die, men who’ve done something, men who don’t know meaning, men who like to remember, men who like to forget, men who know what they want, men who’ve never wanted anything, men who keep on dying, men who keep on cumming, men who make me feel beautiful, men who are too small, men who are too big, men who are hungry, men who don’t eat meat, men who tried, men who masturbate to my belly, men who are tender, men who think about the future, men who depend on their past, men who believe in possibility, men who don’t say much, men who say too much, men who are narcissists, men who are too kind, men who need to move, men who are honest, men who lie, men who tell stories, men who are bored, men who’ve never healed, men who want to misunderstand, men who’ll never learn, men who’re sometimes beautiful, men who don’t care, men who need time, men who ask me for advice, men who ask me if they’re beautiful, men who write me when they’re drunk, men who write me when they’re high, men who think I’m everything, men who think I could be everything, men who play the piano, men who’ve never been lonely, men who are too young to have been lonely, men who are on TV, men who want to fall in love, men who have never had a family, men who are scared of love, men who think I’m innocent, men who think I’m a pervert, men who drink expensive wine, men who eat with their elbows on the table, men who know how to desire, men who desire nothing, men who think I’m lonely, men who think I need to be loved, men who love me every day, men who think I could love them, men who think I already love them, men whom I’ve never loved, men whom I’ll never love.)

The times I’ve appreciated men,


all those men who gradually

stopped talking

after there was no


Sometimes I’m sad we don’t talk, sometimes I forget. It’s kind of funny how growing older enables our mouth to open, certainty in the self finally ensues,

some moments throughout

we might feel invincible.

Simultaneously, however—by experiencing over and over—we become aware of the possible consequences, so much, sometimes we’ll choose, intentionally, to keep our mouth shut a while longer, because we’re not ready for the rising inevitable change to be put into effect.

How growing older often becomes about choosing inability within the very ability, a self-enforced mutilation that seems especially cruel

because all those years we seemed to want nothing

more than to speak our mind,

and now don’t

because we’ve got one.

Lara Konrad is a young NY-based writer whose recent work discusses the conditionality of female body within society, the self-aware mode of production and functionality and how some and many girls/women have become dependent of erotic capital; an inexhaustible 24/7 performativity, breeding since the early stages of childhood. Check out her Instagram here at:


thirsty for tears, i stretch to fit you.

i drown you in honey

drape you in my sweet, self-conscious embrace

i hold you close and wonder how i look

– the modest virgin in her Pietà pose –

my hands stroke your hair.

you lie, defeated,

in my lap.