divine magnet





Kamden Hilliard


Tony Hood

i need a kingdom / drawbridge / a dragon to slay / a dragon slayer to love / or

perhaps another ganglandia        [Gotham?] to shit

scrape shoe.

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 [1865] 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.


Oops, Say Speaker

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.


Keep Cool Boy

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

is coming.


In All Fairness

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.