I woke up on a Friday with an insatiable hunger for a European man. I had been in Paris and my body was in rapture. I spoke to my friends all afternoon about going out hunting. The creature I drug home that night left me covered in bruises. I feel a sense of sadness for him, for how large and hard he always is, how he has to walk around the city in a constant state of arousal.
That night at Le Royal, his blues eyes found mine, and later that night on the street we introduced our bodies:
Sonnet of Endowment
He had the magic head in his pants the whole night.
It was revealed on the west side of Christie
Street between Stanton and Houston. The He-Goat
shivered after the reveal, his mouth
beginning to nip the lips in front of his.
There were 30 degrees of cloth ripping,
buttons finally freed of their straightjacket
string. The magic head is young and violent,
always ready to open its mouth and scream.
It fucks the mind while fucking the body.
The He-Goat speaks: My magic is painful.
Sap is life-giving liquid. The body
and the grave. She wraps her bruises in yellow
feathers while noticing the mess of her nest.
