Permissible slips of little
     secrets keep his circulation
     fed, journalists accountable
     to no one so he just makes them
     crave lies he spins, dazed Rapunzels
     taken in by what he says, men
     like him no different than those
     stoned demons one finds hanging out

on the side of broken churches
     where night’s troubled minds rebuild lives
     clinging to bottles, their perches
     splintered like crutches ætherized
     patience forces them to purchase,
     denial what stalls cruel time—
     transcription of their transaction
     dead silence reporting passion

slime such as this guy mistakes me
     for having for him, his hard head
     blown off by what I give, nearly
     obliterated by kisses
     so wet, my lips quiver when he
     says it’s too much, that his dick’s red
     from all of my mouth’s talent, lust
     what sinks anchormen when they trust

anonymous sources too much,
     but themselves and their hunches not
     enough, since what’s hot to the touch
     often leaves burned what hands forgot
     turns off love, wandering fists much
     more compelling than this fleshpot
     he calls his office, this dive-bar
     he’s haunted longer than my heart.