8 erotic poems about literary nobodies

Bret Easton Ellis, just this once

don’t talk
dirty
to me.

It’s already
filthy enough
back there.

Margaret Atwood’s miraculously perky breasts

with nipples
kept erect
by regular
transfusions
from
young writers
who will
never
get their
shot.

Jeffrey Toobin, please

look me
in the eyes,
if you’re
going to
do that.

Otherwise,
I get
nothing
out of
it.

Amanda Gorman, has anyone ever told you that

—Wait. No.

I shouldn’t have
said
anything.

Never mind.
Never mind.
Never mind.

I’m sorry.
I’m really
really
sorry.

Johnathan Franzen, stop

I don’t need you to
explicate
the fine details of
what’s happening
when you’re
inside me.

But,
maybe,
after
we’re done,
you could
take a look,
at my
manuscript

I would
love
that.

Joyce Carol Oates is active

on twitter,
even now,
at 83
years old.

I wonder
how many
horny DMs
she gets

from men who
read her
one story
in high school

and
popped a boner
at the thought
of that
lost girl

and now
want to relive
just a bit
of that
lost wonder.

David Foster Wallace, how would you feel

if I dug up
your bones
like Carl Tanzler

and did
things
to honor them

and did
things
to dishonor them.

You would
probably feel
nothing

and think
nothing

and write
nothing

insightful

about the
experience.

Alas.

Jia Tolentino walks into a bar

in any city
in the whole goddamn world
except
that one

joyous
at the opportunity
to get fucked

by a man
or woman
or whatever

on the basis of
her
conversational wit
or
body
or
shoes

or
literally anything
but

the fact that
she has been
published in
some bullshit rag
called The New Yorker

more than once.