Dylan Brody

He said, “Today’s not your birthday,”

implying denial of my right

to celebrate for whimsy’s sake,

desire presents,

indulge in gifted centricity.

Buckling under his gaze

what else could I do

but acquiesce?

“Aright.  I’ll pay for the sandwich.”

I said, 
“Hit me with your lo-fi love.
Play me
like the rise and fall after breath,
scratch-needle vinyl-pop.
Still spinning in rhythm,
show me
party’s final rasping clutch
of sub-love need-lust.
Rakefire’s dare,” I called,
“Stoke me
blowing back from dead-as-ash
grey to slow red growing glow
to flickering dance of warm tongues.”

I said,
“Let me swing you dizzy,
dip you
deep, reach spark-plug calibration
never-kiss oh-so-close,
snap-static jump-shock
in time.
Drumming out the damages
together, all the demons
crushed in shame’s embrace,
sweat drowned,
claim arcing turns of space
and sound the tube-hum
howl of good times gone long.”

She said,
“You talk funny.  How old are you?”

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