These fabricated lines


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.

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