Millennial Love (ROUND 2)
Let's workshop this poem about the struggle of true connection in the digital age, where smartphones and porn ideals foster feelings of alienation, inadequacy, and FOMO that corrode intimacy
Millennial Love Estranged from the warmth of loveseats once shared truly with one another (retinas searing private screens filthy, but only with each’s own sticky juices), we find ourselves recoiled “in secret,” yet enough to require— like British bulldogs, if not like tethered marionettes— Amazon lube, buzzing pocket pussies, little blue tablets to bridge the chasm. How could our partner ever reach the epitomes of pixel porn we were long suckled upon: baby-oiled genitalia, goosepimple bald in unblinking 4k; floodlit zooms into each Attenborough snap of mucus strung in the lithe gape of airbrushed fuckholes clawed open always to machinic jackhammering, often literally (beer-bottle drilldos on each set and UPS truck)? Add to this: endless swiping of faces (white sugar irresistible to fruit-evolved brains anticipating famine), farming FOMO on what better lies in the teledildonic cloud.
