The Illusion
The Illusion
You punish me to
provide
a spectacle of
excess—tamp
my testicles with
affirmations
of your power.
Your mannequins blow
and breathe
urgency
like naked bald-hydras
morgue
between Santiago Lima
where desert
sands are voiceless.
What is different
between us
is the intensity
of our attraction.
Oh, how many
nooses
I've stretch
around the necks of gigolos
at cul-de-sac
social clubs
where cellos moan
and mouths wilt
as I listen
to tangos and
pick up sugar
dropped on the
table
trying to ignore
the blood
on my recently
buffed shoes.
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