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And torn tissues of light, imperfect and
misplaced, litter his face, pace a pattern
past his burning, take out of view his pain,
blanking out his bruised lips, breaking, saying
that my warmth is what he can’t do without;
that what I shoot moonbeams and headlights through
his dusk, as if pulling off takes him to
avenues and galaxies—back alleys—
he can’t get enough of—strange abandon
he pants out, pants off, performing a trance
we can’t even shake, so when my starman
spaces our encounters closer, I run.
→ ○ ←
And for f(r)iction I fight; in pursuit and
with haste I enter his place, take moments
that last longer, and made of so few, I’m
waiting for him with anticipation
that antiquates my pen and my mouth so
that my every effort to paint out
loud makes my tongue an unwound tape no sound
can escape; a poisoned technology
he happens to think better suits me when
he wants me to paint him but I won’t, since
self-expression’s sexiest when Fascism
suppresses poets and alienates men.
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