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.