This is a man who should have known better.
- W. Todd Kaneko
A mixture of blood, cum, and tears that never mix.
I still find your hairs in my things,
almost invisible, like my belongings are one giant marionette.
I threaded one through my hands,
its creeping slide about to pounce
and draw the blood from me
because my teeth yelled too loudly
because it was the wrong thing to say.
(The right thing to say is always quiet.)
Never mind your wet daggers
slipping between my ribs like I’m some sort of whore.
If I clucked my tongue, a fault would form
and mark the ground, earth cave right here.
I respond with my wet daggers.
I know I had the choice to not come
and didn’t, but I still did
to acquiesce your wanton yawp
so desperately thrown into the air.
Bent legs, highlight marks the place
where I remember the cum,
not a slow ooze but a light drip
like morning coffee mouth marks residue running down the side
of the cup. It overflows.
and I wish for it badly, its elastic stretching
but never breaking. Then comes finally
the clear acrylic of our sinuses, a plaid chair
sitting daintily among Warhols. s means plural,
and p is a beg, while f becomes something more than
what it was. something bad, morphing before my eyes
which have no windshield to cover the onslaught
of the last liquid I ever hoped would grace my globes.
the tears of someone who should have fortified himself more properly.