– ‘Let’s fake love like adult film stars
                    do.’ – ‘A kiss or some head, how would
               you like it?’ – ‘On the lips,’ he’d said,
          gunning for a fistful of chips,
     betting his dolorous grim, with
silvered confidence, hard against
     the house we’d lost our dignity
          in. – ‘Before finding our Selves, let’s
               cash in on this decadence, so
                    when politicians lob off their
                         balls and crack-down on crack-dens and

                                                                                what entertains adults, we can
                                                                                     reminisce about tonight, stoked,
                                                                                          scrolling backstrokes through screengrabs of
                                                                                               our sickest Snapchats, and live in
                                                                                                    this dope moment for life, joking
                                                                                                         about that wicked shit-show of
                                                                                                    a time when we both went-for-broke,
                                                                                               barebacking in that dank mountain
                                                                                          cabin our boss let us use, that
                                                                                     weekend we used each other, and
                                                                                the cops told our folks they wouldn’t

                         pursue any charges, if we
                    would cooperate and delete
               those Insta-posts of two dude-bros,
          fucking the daylights out of their
     night-out tight-holes, these photos we’re
going to take now,’ and so I
     made no fuss, as I denied all
          society’s talk of consent
               and trust, calling it “art” and our
                    tryst a “collaboration,” since
                         giving brain’s as good as any

                                                                                conversation, throats coaxing-in
                                                                                     what thoughts tongues trouble themselves to
                                                                                          say, when the truth’s better swallowed,
                                                                                               letting our sticky fingers do
                                                                                                    the walking better than living
                                                                                                         a miserable existence
                                                                                                    among some dumb-shit, celibate
                                                                                               syphilisation bereft of
                                                                                          digital s(t)imulation, since
                                                                                     so much more can be said without
                                                                                talking, language so limiting.