The Theory of Moths In vibrant colors, he may kiss you: Carlito caged, or all aglow on stage, sequined, body labyrinthine. He is a constellation of leather underwear. He may kiss you. Boys, penumbral muscle, know power as a complex series of undulation. His merci- ful lips carve your mouth’s thin void. You want him to, for you have nothing but time and a body you know is yours though you’ve not enjoyed it for years. Have touched yourself like a foreign country bound by water. What choice do you have? Carlito leans in close, his body-glitter moist against your cheek. He is solid, will not fade. Some nights, Carlito makes you hate yourself. When his wild bird hips whir, you want to kill him. But you don’t. He has gravity enough to Go-Go the city to flames. You are in Chicago. It is cold. Flames would be nice. Something to help you wither. Your beer has gone stale. You are not alone. Through sonic appraisal of bodies laced with bass, asses rise and set like all the men whose mornings take them nowhere. Aretha spun twice as fast is cure and the cage is more destination than home. But you are home. Home and on fire. Hateful of the beautiful powdered bodies, unbound. You have a gun in your pocket you don’t care to use. Only carry it from time to time to feel the hard steel like a city you wish would coffin and crush you, lick itself clean. Carlito looks at you, smiles all-teeth and want. Let him caress its outline in your jeans. Let him feel the heat, mistake it as your own. -PBW
Posted on: Fri, 08 Nov 2013 08:51:49 +0000
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