& if, as terrance says, every real man contains a beautiful woman then
i’m livid with her too: not even she could honour me with the truth,
sipping her yellow mai tai, or whatever gaslamp liquid, head cocked
for a faux-whimsical photo. synthetic, sickening as glycerin. see you
puffy, sullen at a supermarket checkout then made up at the event &
i’m compelled by a feeling like a dead fish churned by waves. tired
particulars of your unshaven face surface in my dreams, each mole
flawlessly recomposed. sometimes think that now we could speak but
i couldn’t cope with more bullshit out your bent mouth. you cheat.
manoeuvring femininity like a bushed vehicle you drive women
round in to a mixtape of lies silver as ice. christ, i still protect
a small, determined light for you despite a steady, congealing sense
guilt’s the rubber of your favourite shoes. we’ve both got our own
room to sit alone in & love i don’t envy your view.