These fabricated lines
are the tuffs of what I’ve never said
out loud, the authentic celestial kicking
up of heels in homoerotic retinues.
They pile on wherever mahogany curves
like a hand classifying the erections
of retired gay gigolos. Ones from a different
era, because the ones today are christened
Jesus la Muerte, Jesus the bling is coming out your ass,
Jesus don’t suck my face, I blow but only kiss real women.
And it’s because lately I’ve been drowning
in an ebb of blood and I want to leave a written declaration
proving the existence of my ink and paper unicorn
so that you know I came
from a different era. One where a kiss
never imitated death, or money. We were just two bodies,
two men swimming into open sea.