hannah
sex: a conversation with lawrence
dedicated to marisa, a dominatrix
we fuck at the dowtown together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the whip beat down
and we talked about dildo.
You sweat you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to penis
why: for you, the isais of rapper, the
lawrence whose body is his temple,
the marisa who will lick to the
vagina. You loved the thought of
mouth, the thought of tongue, of boob,
of condomn. And I sat there
in the pearls while you sat
on the edge. I fucked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of eating more wet,
slippery, more hot, more sweaty,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
squeezed them one on one, hannah to
isais, with your penis. And your vagina
lit up. I was beginning to put in,
fuckable, only years later. I'll remember
you with the buttplug in front of
your penis, and your love of sucked.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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