Morgan Parker
Poet of the Hyper-Specific, Pop-Culture Grief and Joy
Grief in neon. Joy in triple time. All hail the messy middle.
My desk is a shrine to contradiction: Prince’s smirk next to Morrison’s grave gaze. I hunt ghosts in the grocery store aisle, make saints of late-night comedians. My poems are the aftermath of a group chat gone literary—equal parts heartbreak, red lipstick, and Beyoncé lyrics whispered like scripture. You laugh because it’s true. You cry because it’s yours.
What I'm Into: Cold brew at 3AM, Trap lyrics as scripture, Late-night YouTube spirals, Sole survivor in yoga class, Abstract Sundays
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