BoySlut

death by Poet(ry)

when you woke up this morning

the dust in the acidic

draft-less air

had already settled upon your face

thus ruining

those past-apocalypse seasons we spent together;

it is a reminiscent of these

when I find myself at a morality loss

rousing up in cheap motel rooms

where the continental breakfasts

don’t seem “continental” anymore.

why do we keep on running?

where do you think we are going?

why can’t we just stake our claim

on some little dingy foreign country (side) dive

and trade treason for reason?

instead of bathing today, you bathe in perfume

and sit upon my dormant cock

the heat within your woman’s womb

doesn’t placate me anymore

but it’s the slow wind of those acidic elements

that waft through your monotonous hair

that which stirs my black key stroke erections.

and each strand that rakes through my hand

reminds me of earth –

pigmen born of mud

air, where contagion spreads –

fire, hell-lelujah in the sky –

water, a grave integrity of baptisms –

you lay your naked face against my cottoned chest

feeling for my last breath, you whisper:

you don’t know this

but you have a black picket fence

staked around your heart

a grave marker

sitting on your soul

and, you’re wearing a suit.

no self-proclaimed poet wears suits,

anymore.

so-stop-pretending-to-be-dead.