you read those books where they build girl angels in laboratories
who fall in love with lonely boys.
you like hearing your poems
read back to you in english accents
and you like your accents
licking on your poems
because, if I recall, you’re heart-broken
--no I haven’t forgotten,
yes I remember, you were the
curvaceous queen of unskinned knees;
I was ****** in jeans.
you got partway through Swann’s Way,
but gave up last November,
when I was hitting walls hard.
the last words you read were the last
on your mind, “Happiness is beneficial for the body--”
and you stopped, that was fine enough
for a tattoo. (happy needle,
breast imbrue)
Well grief taught me, grief bought me,
and I was hitting walls hard.
But straight back for you, to boys kissing boys
and you’re too old for toys and
you think it’s pathetic
how girls go to get it
with silicon and plastic
oh go on, tell me how
you’re a heart-breaker, ha,
because you showed them
your *******, like an angel.
you like to remind me how skinny you are now,
and you still love to dance.
There is no equivalent factory making boy angels.
This feels like trash, but here we are anyway.