sometimes i think        i’m the wrong type of gay

not into       clubbing poppers not insta

glam        enough       not gym rat enough

swiping                   for a new encounter pounded

in dark alleys smelling of piss

sometimes the body grows           mythical

hydra-like                    flicking pages             it differs from the hunks

in attitude              out             gay times

sometimes i overflow

with grief        chipped cup leaking tub      what the mirror

reflects               what body       i inhabit              differ

i’m the wrong             type of gay       rugby players

fuck me bareback

in expensive rooms     at the bulgari the savoy           no such thing

as being old                     i grow out                    of myself

every seven years              carry                            myself over

to the next man’s              lips                              a brazen vessel

a holy host                  to melt             on the tongue

at the end

of his long day                  sometimes              i think i’m the wrong

type of gay           at dawn the river

drags                     in its mournful wake               all the names

of men I loved                 who fucked me                  scarred me

or left me for dead                                   which is the same