Soaked in Chromosomes

                         i.

M     artyred czar, bearded patriarch upstart
     stilled, I’m no longer a
practitioner, yeah, I’m eating lead
erasing what I once penciled
in, in excess, over-experienced, over-lived,
I’m vibing Nicholas the Second,
too soft to rule an
empire of wadded tile, no
longer wild, I just want
to be held, not even
a theorist anymore, either, yes,

                         ii.

it’s not that I fear
it, sir, not yet and
never did, but being so
near its heat has melted
all its consequences, friend, I’m
just bored, I guess, too
much flesh, sex endless as
fame once was expected to
be, a fortress erected against
those we want to forget,
bolstered with bricks of bullshit

                         iii.

built on the bared backs
of bedded regrets, I’m sick
of the stress, the emptiness,
the fickleness of useless, clueless,
confused mimbo muses too diffuse
to inspire what lasts longer
than a moment passed mixing
each other’s wept sweat to
express in vain the pain
our vanity paints in exasperating
pants, breathless and spent, severe

                         iv.

case of being there and
doing that, had it, hard
pass, bruh, getting over this
fast, so now as Miguel
texts me from the Getty,
his message gets me hot,
wetter than whatever hell hooking
up and cruising was meant
to evoke, feeling so heavy
letting me know the place
is ours for the day,

                         v.

that the director expects us
to eat up its collection
firsthand, no public around, no
having to account for having
to get my hands down
some random’s pants, my fist
around manhood standing around urinals
no plan, just hanging, straddling
porcelain, panning to be seen
by guys whose blind love
I’ll never feel, whose names

                         vi.

they'll never reveal, whose raw
deals my wealth’s never met,
failing to pass my test,
below standard anyhow, not now
that I’ve got what I’ve
always wanted to get, someone’s
attention so devoted, it must
present as pretentious to witness,
to glimpse two weirdo dudes
who refuse to be put
through what clichés our Us

                         vii.

undoes by never doing what
They say to instead, just
because this place we’re at
pleases more than anonymous pleasure
ever does, no longer lingering
for what never was, I’m
his, body count of dead
stars with a relationship to
the invisible realm, secrets that
spoil in air when spilled,
indulgence hides my wisdom well.