Four Poems by Dean Boskovich

Love & IBS

the answer is of course yes i do
realize i’m the type of person who
sees a piece of paper taped to a
window that says “this is not a
mirror” and realizes i’ve been
checking myself out for the past
two blocks
also, yes, i write poems about love
and colon health and pay for tinder
gold even though i’ve never used it
and last time i went on a date i told
a nice girl that falling in love gives
me stomach aches
 and meant it!

i’m posting an insta poll looking for a
sexy way to say i have anxiety induced
ibs but i’ve been to therapy and i’ve
built a life of endless routine and isolation
so that nowadays i almost always
feel good i mean at least not terrible

i’m trying to be sexy right now and i
need you to tell me if it’s working i
need you to be so so clear with me
because, basically, i’m willing to step
out of myself if that’s what it means to
step into your world, but for aforementioned
reasons, i really do not want to have
a panic attack here in your apartment

every time you look at me like you’re
trying to figure out a math equation
it makes me feel so fucking nervous
all i can think about is the possibility
of all my teeth falling out next time i
try to eat an apple in front of you i
don’t know why i’m like this i don’t
know how i can feel this way and
simultaneously feel so so

I Wrote This Poem in a Gas Station Bathroom

i’ve realized that the word i use most often,
when writing poems about love, is “I”

as in I fall to pieces every time you say my
name, I want you to crumble me up like

the potato chips you inexplicably use to
garnish your ice cream, I want my car to

break down so I can get lost wandering
down a dark highway on the off chance

that you will drive past, and find me once
again; show me the way home. I fall asleep

counting sheep-like the ways in which I’ve
love you. Do the beets, the cabbage, and the

cauliflower all go in the same drawer? My god.
It is so tedious, to live in this world

without you.


the object of my starving gaze
etch into my eyes
your gossamer likeness
a statuette
your memory, a shard
your echo, a chimera
your smile, a DIY book titled
how to make a glass collage
how to float without moving
how to build a castle
how to wash away
how serenely i bask before you
blistered burned and bare
how to be a castaway
searching for a shipwreck
how i let you be my sun
long endlessly for your light
i, cereus, unaware
cacti only bloom at night

I Think I am the Type of Person Who Would Fall in Love with a Christmas Tree
Ornament. Smile At It Once A Year.

When I was a child it was 1,2,2,1 into
my side or ground between my teeth.
Words disappeared into groups of
numbers in ascension. Her name would
have been 1,2,3, if I didn’t just love to
say her name.

It was 4, 16, 64 until I lost count and
started over with nervous fingers that
should have just stuck to piano. There
were never any voices except for the
ones I had to block out. Beautiful became
2,3,4. Heart break was 1 ,2,3,4, incidentally.

Psychology was 1,2,3,4 and ‘obsessive
compulsions as a coping mechanism to
emotional trauma and untreated anxiety
disorder’ wasn’t a phrase I read until I
was too tired to count it all out.
Just kidding, it’s 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12.

There were always two steps between every
crack and diagonal tiles and two times two
times two but always still just two.
On the boardwalk I only walked on the nails
On the highway I tapped bruises in the
shape of a pattern on my knee.
On the porch I smoked 16 cigarettes and
they all tasted like 1 ,2,3,4, but they were
all to the tune of 1,2,3. Again and again.

Until two equaled two. Again and again.
Until two equaled two. Again and again.
Until two equaled two. Again and again.

Not to be rude,
I moved to where there are no boardwalks. There aren’t any tiles.
Nobody here knows you.

Dean Boskovich is a 26 year old cook and college dropout living in Asheville, NC. He writes poetry when he’s supposed to be working and smiles warmly about the existence of dogs and denim. Follow Dean on Twitter @dirtydean and on Instagram at @deanboskovich.

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