He had his mother’s eyes.
Hereditary baldness from his father
had yet to set in.
American castles and pumpkin pie.
“Every” “single” “word” “in” “quotes.”
A pair of fishnets in the toilet.
He wonders what they’ll catch.
Nothing, of course, but still,
he couldn’t help but force it,
when he wanted it to come.
They found his body in a limousine
w/ glitter pouring out his sides.
He was always speeding
faster, faster and harder, harder,
A velvet-lovers industrial revolution.
A poor man’s poison apple.
A cure for cancer isn’t far away
and perfection is oh so fucking worth the wait.
But all the plastic in the world
won’t conceal his nudity,
nipples of bubble wrap threaded
thru and thru his tongue
like waterfalls along the rocks
like genitals strung around the Christmas tree
w/ popcorn and flickering lights.
Lavender perfume from a variety of women.
Sexual favors in every flavor.
Incessant metaphors prying their fingers
between the space in his eyes
and the hole in his nose.
He’ll never trust the personal ads again.
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