DISTRICTURE preview (AGON Journal # 1)
Walking around your street and your school-age cousins were play-yelling, which for one of them escalated into genuine anger. I remarked semi-sarcastically/semi-empathetically/semi-impressed that he was pissed off, and you laughed through a bowed head, hoping I wouldn’t catch it.
I ask with a scorn that barely rises past a seductive tease how you’re doing.
[Preamble deleted]
We’re in each other’s mouthes and you’re softly crying with a caverning regret. Fingers graze the expanding dampness moistening down the legs of your jeans and internally I beam from sadistic speculations on whether or not this trespass will prove irrevocably ruinous to any and all current partner-hoods... powered to god by night-dark moods.
Comment thread syntax. Only gazed upon with either indifference or contempt. Entitled unadventurous myopic puritans.
Like a signal flare in a baby carriage. Garage oil flannel tied around waist. Cut-off black cargo pants muddied to a fade from deliberate exposure to insulation or shellac. Black work boots,their texture worn to cragged. Leather jacket reprises the cracked, gummy motif of the footwear. Molting leather bracelets. Old-school goalie mask air-brushed with a chromium finish and trimmed to be framed by a feral shout of icy black hair. The holes in and around the nose, eyes, and mouth carve-modded into Zs overlaid with Xs.
Blows out through the back of a Bari Weiss look-a-like’s head. A cranial geode of excessive cum.
Splatty crow’s feet. Wife beater under-washed and stretched to the dimensions of a nightgown. Radiant from piecemeal damages. Pining is soft grief.
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