The next time I neck, I hope it’s
really slow like a worn-out V.H.S.—
lust is a jade panther prowling
my mind, standing in the middle of life,
dancing with my crisis, grinding
like a jacked knife bleeding in my hand, fag
loaded down, watch me come hard to

compensate, arrive now to eat something
personal for your arsenal
burning hurdles, unbinding every
sutured peace of our treaty as
your demands bound against me, turning the
key to my heart’s gridiron gates,
taste my misery in every (mis)take,

a (c)rude driven motor of a
moody blue movie loaded down in used
weaponry my bones can’t even
operate, I am what I make, belief
and grief mixing both their middle
fingers in an obscene painting still wet
from hesitation, an unsafe

& unclean experiment/experience
sick of waiting for love’s abstract
idea to offer its own throbbing
consolation, following me
like another legend’s myth loaded down
with consequence, sudden death, and
other imaginary substances.