i need a kingdom / drawbridge / a dragon to slay / a dragon slayer to love / or
perhaps another ganglandia [Gotham?] to shit
and perhaps we all need a boy that knows how to save
and wants to.
incoming; another bluegreen spring, fogless—
and here he is: riding in on horseback-cadillac-
dirigible-steam-dream! oh Tony, thick to quell me.
it has been blubbery, baby.
this alive stuff: garden parties and 24 hour MTV love,
but now it’s all here. yu’re all here,
i mean, sorry.
who wants to go Vegas when there’s love right ‘round the corner?
and while my pokeball game is impeccable [gimmie that
Marvel-MichelAngelo-Marlboro-Man] my wants keep
Flaubert’s Madame Bovary’s  Madame Bovary
company. like, you can’t sit with us because we think
love must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings,
—a hurricane of the skies but alas, his chorelessness
ain’t even made up by that ass.
babe, you need to separate colors and—
yes, well that’s why i buy fabric softener, so we can, ya know, use it
well why wasn’t it on the list?
oh, so now i'm Pharaoh of the fucking grocery store?
this too is love: crimes of passion crick from the woodwork
because another bluegreen spring outgoing leaves little
to look from. talk about toxic. talk about a tall walled love canal.
Tony’s trying but if you ain’t busy living you’re busy
to keep from crying. you’re breaking
to buy the fuck up outta here, scarling.
the OED calls a hero a person, typically a man, who is admired
for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.
so there’s a dick-hero-joke i’d choke out if Tony wasn’t already
clinking through someone else’s sunset / fucking off before the spring
goes all formerly gorgeous and fallenlike.
my hero wins me a kingdom
and takes it back before May’s flowers,
before April’s washed blood from grout,
‘fore i step from the postmaim shower.
why wait for the wasted? : troublesome boytoy can’t even stick
the barstool. Confucious says, no need for plaster one wall of dung.
so scratch the color scheme. no couch-debates, no his and his sinks,
no halloween costumes— def no matching— nd, ya know, let’s ice
the eternally argumentative nurture of wedding invites / of windows,
bc he’s open and i’m open— like, why not? why keep tight for? tor
let’s us trap thru the darkweb w few scratchscars so let’s get metaphysical metaphysical.
night leads where all nights lead— footfall into another barkeep /
another free drink. clink. nd the evening opens her shiny arms.
i’ve been patient, i’ve been good / tried to keep my hands
from the stable. partner dancing the square? cross any dancefloor?
and i’m bright as the buoy which bends the ocean toward its safer
ends. sloshed as i am sunny as i am poorly housetrained. what do M. Stew
and Confufu have in common? mad containment skill / but also like
general disdain. strapping up for the party means putting out with
my risk of stain.
my typeset is pleather clad and has some beary bad news. not
super extra, typeset. my typeset ain’t finna make much noise.
typeset set is more Shark than Jet, but is Jet-desire, all fuck /
kill / marry / the answer is always yes. my typeset don’t side-
-show itself, typeset refuses all sideeye. my typeset ain’t got
no type bad bitches is the only thing that it like. typeset
aka: squad / defendants / homies / former sex partners / the otherside
of town / shadows / git off me, please? my typeset want to be
in America / for a small fee in America. clearly, typeset love
a good horror story. my typeset wouldn’t like to play a game,
no thanks. i’m lucky in a typeset and part my play proper, more
final girl than torture porn. typeset broke up the dance at the gym--
after my Carrie call, this carib of fire. my typeset is all trees
in the forest to block the camera’s occasional nipslice. typeset
is a strong proponent of the moneyshot, i mean, killshot [but also
moneyshot?] and what kind of victim of circumstance would i be
without a shriek / the lopped tit bounce / my cross-cut to Tony.
always Tony [just out of reach, down the block, on a beach].
Tony under the tree. Tony for my casket. Tony forever? Tony
forever. oh Tony, the air is humming and something great
of course you thought of fucking Tony, but you
did think more about fucking Tony’s fiancée.
and in the interest of a sustainable framework
for continued self loathing, it should be stated
[again] that you still wanted to fuck him, even
after you found out he called Tony’s mom a cunt
or a nigger [with the -er and everything] though,
you can’t remember which, but only that it was
bad enough to be the c word or the n word
as Tony’s fiancée shook the drip and zipped back
from the bathroom. and even now, you still can’t
remember which, but you can remember and to
remember is to think and to think is to thought,
have a. thoughts remember which lever to pull
or what to turn into a lever or what wants to pull
out of you. i’m sorry. i’m doing it again. movie-
science says men think about sex every ten seconds
and that sounds like a lie, i think. because Tony’s
fiancée [white boy / unionized] makes it worse,
when he does that neck thing. when he pulls
his drink and i’m left with thirst or thrash. but he
just sits there, locked in his stupid traps. and i just
sit there, locked in his stupid traps. everything
is about sex, with the exception of sex,
which is about power. which is about Tony’s fiancée
who called Tony’s mom a cunt or a nigger
[with the -er and everything]. you can’t remember
which, but only that it was bad enough to be
the c word or the n word. i’ve been looking for a man
to fuck up my facebones and cry me to sleep. i guess
what i mean [what i’m making] is a life on lollipops.
my body is ready / is ripe for the taking.