boyfriends

“The Sleepers” by Louis Fratino, 2020, oil on canvas

I.

There are three things I am not allowed to tell you. First, that the pages in the book are robbed from the past. I do not own them. But there is no one there. I hear the dead with their undead lawyers suing me for copyright theft. Second, see the words wiggle their tails. Feed them with a nightly reading. Or kill them if you can’t afford the sustenance. Lastly, lick the edges for poetry, love, it’s basic courtesy.

II.

You can find me in the footnotes of a book on the history of horses. But of course, I am not one to disclose specificities without price. A bag of juvenile fingers. Pronto. Deliver them to index. The o’s will open if you knock with a pencil.

III.

We are cursory customers to Eden. You jest it’s cheese, I say you’re cheesy. There is the tree where apples grow. It is you who’s tall enough to be sinful. So you pick some and the snake says to hoard some more. We will be businessmen back home. We take a bite and spit out the age-curdled mammary squirt of what would be beef.

IV.

I sing in his mouth. Transform into teeth, and be our calcium audience. A basketball match in the background reminds us we are men. The eruption of the crowd tells us we don’t know how it’s played. The commentator is a woman. We tore condoms who were scared of girth. Taste the strawberry rubber dipped in milk tiles.

V.

Tell me about the nights you felt a girl squeeze your dick with god-given lips and the entrance of Mary. Thank you for these complementary genitals! You say, the no-need for lube, the convenience of everywhere, and a sleek one-time push. This is not porn. I’m sorry my hole is exit.

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