​Boner for God

I woke up with a boner for God and a hangover from reality. My sheets smelled like microwaved sin. My pillow had lipstick, slobber, and a restraining order.

The ceiling was moaning over the drywall. The fan was doing slow, lazy foreplay with the air. Every breeze felt like it was trying to finger my thoughts.

My brain opened Pornhub, and it was just mirrors. Every thumbnail said, “YOU AGAIN.” I clicked one, and it was my parents’ expectations choking on a saxophone.

The toilet flirted with me. It said, “Sit.” I said, “Don’t rush me.” We had a toxic relationship based on fear and splashback.

The shower whispered dirty prophecies:

“You will cum;

you will consume;

you will pay rent.”

My phone vibrated like it missed me. It sent me nudes of my own data. I came spiritually and immediately felt ashamed of the cloud.

God slid into my DMs with a holy thirst trap. Satan replied with a Yelp review:

⭐️⭐️

“Too much light. Weird vibes.”

My blood was thick with commercials. My nipples knew the stock market. My ass cheeks clapped in Morse code: “S-O-S.”

Every clock thrusts forward but never finishes. Every door teases and blue-balls me into memory. Every mirror shows me naked except for my excuses.

I tried to love myself, but it turned into mutual masturbation with anxiety. We both finished early and cried.

The fridge opened its legs and showed me leftovers from 2013. The milk had cottage cheese nipples. The eggs were pregnant with surveillance.

Outside, the moon was bent over the ocean like it owed it money. The waves kept slapping its ass and calling it “tides.” The stars watched like perverts in a bush made of math.

My soul is a motel room with a Bible in the drawer, condoms in the ice bucket, and a stain shaped like a question mark.

Time keeps edging me with deadlines. History keeps rawdogging me with context. Capitalism keeps asking, “Did you finish?” And I keep saying, “I’m still buffering.”

I scream into the void, and the void says, “Harder.” We exchange trauma like nudes.

The universe bends me over a calendar and whispers, “This is called a schedule.”

Somewhere, a vending machine is still panting: “INSERT COIN.”

So I insert:

– desire,

– dignity, and

– whatever childhood smell still turns me on.

It spits out a damp pamphlet:

“Congratulations. You have experienced intimacy with nothing.”

I wipe my mouth with philosophy. I zip up my soul. I go back to work.

Because I am not a man. I am not a mind. I am not a lover.

I am a horny ape with a mortgage, getting fucked by time on a mattress made of receipts.