there’s some art school bitch in the corner of the room, making like she has more than the look at me smile and the child-slut wink and the lampshade attitude, you bitch, you I mean you – who the fuck dares hold in the light? and all the boys are pretty boys the way that they used to sneer and mutter “faggot” to those pretty boys. now the faggots are fierce and the straightboys are rocking mean highlights, swagger mean fashion, slim hips and slim hands and now we know, go round again, and then we wonder who the real men are.
and i am coming at you, with big hard breaths.
wicked blood wild blood mean blood hard bleed marred in the marriage of the moment and the blessing of the beat in the heart the pulse in the neck and I see you in the street. bitch who let you walk the street? i own this street. i walk it. i own it. i walk it. i work it.
and you are song beat and wing crease you are night cap and night watch you are hard times and hard love and hard word and word work and work baby, you better work. sit with the primal inability to choose and let loose your chaos like storm roiling threat beckoning die up in preparation for this this reckoning.
and i am coming at you, with big hard breaths.
—
Go gentle on you. I love you. I walk the wire for you. But I walk it for me too. The moment before we drown is the moment that we kick hard to the surface, even if we don’t know which way that is.
