tell me, baby,
does my semen write you poetry
does it recline under olive trees
and scribble something sanskrit
into the oaken bark of canals
something something sanskrit like
“ah, to one of the shirtless boys
around the patio
with the drinks
with their fingers just touching
so close it was as if they were not touching
just touching
two fingers
the drinks
I would fall asleep were my mind able
to sit for anything longer than nothing
under olive trees, ah, ha, how could I
how could I dare leave?”
tell me, baby.
it’s anything you want
it’s everything you’ve seen;
situps until
I am no longer in control of my bowels
every treasured heirloom
I’ll watch you burn my grandmother’s broaches
my grandfather’s war medals
in the dustbin
just you and me
just tell it to me
and I'll the drinks
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