Poetry by Anthony Aguero

             Tony Webster CC




A Landscape of Burnt Spoons

Now that we’re dead. That we’re limitless.
That the gunshots in the distance 
Can’t reach us. That we’ve been punished 
Despite neglecting capital punishment.
That we’ve loved while drinking water. That
This isn’t the end. That the oleander 
Still reaches our scents here. That I love you.
That the desert is still in my toes. That
It smells like the ocean, 
And that we’re oceanic. That I won’t define
Any of this for you. That we’ve seen the edge.
That even in death. That even in love. That
Carpe this and that and here and now and.
That our ruin contained limits. 
That this goes on. That we continue. And --

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Orpheus at the Edge of the Bed

Aware that checkout was at 11, he sang

or tapped his nails against the headboard

or chewed the flowers in the white vase,

ones which were indistinguishable 

to say that of the phlox or prickly pear 

or the sighing lily, and nobody had asked 

or thought to ask if he was sad, but he was,

because he had lost something 

that he could never get back. I understood

the dire situation, and I wanted to cry,

but I figured it unfair. I watched him music.

Or sing. Or throw the vase to the wall. Or

Flower. Or he was masturbating ferociously.  

Or he just sat there remaining withdrawn

from say the phlox or the prickly pear

or the lilac I placed along his cold ear
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​Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared in the Bangalore Review and The Temz Review.