PIG
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Twenty-Third PIG
2
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-2:08

Twenty-Third PIG

Toi, Toi, Toi
2

These faggots love poetry. The presence of sex, meaning, or the unique revelation of an allegory in something entirely quotidian. I don’t feel it. I try to identify the plants in my periphery. Remind myself of their names, their features, their character, their intricacies and their endless etceteras, but it does nothing. Praise is unnecessary for the truly devout. I think about the heightened presence of desire. Desire as a weight on the body. Desires of a fetishistic imagination. Desire of the unmade bed. I think about the unmade bed, and my space in it. I think about you in the unmade bed. What is it about the unmade bed?

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Hold on–
I want the fire to burn on low,
Cowboy.
Hold on,
Stay,
Come back,
Wait–
A sunset utterance,
A slow-burn, drop down
hatched-up plan
for the masses,
and by the masses
I mean me and you, baby.
Me and you,
Cowboy.
Elegance in the flesh,
a nip in the bud,
two in the hand
is worth one in the bush.
Whatever it takes
to grapple you from the
sidelining glances.
Easy, cowboy, I want
the fire to burn all night.
A bed sheet hanging
in the same space
as a bed unoccupied–
Felix’s work makes me
cry again.

In the unmade bed, I’m a martyr, I’m a whore, I’m a man, I’m a washed-up quilt sewn by a collection of ghosts. I’m a boy, I’m a nobody, I’m a fantasy, a bottom, a top, a Twink, a niche-fuck, a lover, a drunk. I’m a satisfactory fuck and a captured abbreviation of intimacy. I’m a porn star, a guest, a host, a point in time. I’m in the unmade bed, and it swallows me up. I’m a romantic; I knuckle a bony bit on his sternum and think about the meaning of this touch. I want him to feel love, but I don’t love him. I want him to feel my grace, but I’m not graceful. I want him to feel respected, but I don’t know his name. I want to cry while being consumed by the fantasy of this bed. I want to crumble like this spring-foamy, 1980s-ass mattress. I want to jump up and down, scream my name, sit on my finger until the world falls away. Collect an archive, collect the decaying substance of this period. Collect something so as to be a collector of something.

we're so good
for each other
god we're so good
for each other, baby
i promise 
i promise
i promise
Cowboy, Cowboy,
Cowboy.

It follows the same flight pattern. Again and again, it follows. It’s determined to understand the presence of meaning itself, and that to which it all points. A leg goes. Bringing it all into focus by shattering the perimeter and hoarding it all in my center. Don’t let it go. In the dance, a clue about fear. A sign of desperation, a spark of death. Dancing while dying, not dancing while coming to life. Every dance is a dance of death, because the dance can never exist again. Every dance is sorrowful, every movement is punctuated by the sheer fact that it is the last, first, and only in existence. Despite the source, despite the attack, it is all dead, dying, decaying, falling in on itself. Worship the dance while you have it, I made it for you, cowboy. Cowboy, cowboy, cowboy. 

An unmade bed, a grave for dancing,
An altar for worship, a site 
For practicing the 
Red room myth. 
Birds of a feather, 
Butt of a gun,
And artifice,
Collapsed
In the wing of bird
Softly landing
On your cheek.
The between us–
I want to build a wall,
Blast it
Reupholster the fabric, 
Welcome you in,
Kill you
And sit on your dead dick. 

Endearment is a kind of love language for fags. A vocabulary that is dexterous, derelict, and lovable. I’m trying to figure out why I rely on it so much. Why the fear of being out of movement? I don’t know the language of this era. The language of this moment. The gestured, uttered, collected, archived narrative of this moment. I know the unmade bed. I know the cowboy. I know you, cowboy. I don’t know about the West to East winds (or vice-versa), migratory flight patterns, or the myths of desertification, but I know you. I know the structure of your face, the falling of light on your cheek, the brush strokes of hair painted on your chest, legs, and ass. I can recall the network of muscles that clench in your sleep. What does it tell us? Of what does it remind us?

The hair on his ass,
Missed by the negligence.
The words from his mouth,
Articulate and lonely.
The sun strikes unassumingly, 
The quilt on the couch is draped
Distastefully, and the rug hasn’t 
Been vacuumed in weeks. 
Nothing is composed of nothing, I say.
But in fact,
It’s composed of everything that
Offers itself to the 
Composition of nothingness.
To that end, 
I think back to the unmade bed. 
I think back to the call of
The unmade bed.
The glory of the unmade bed.
The girl, boy, someone sitting, lying,
Fucking in the unmade bed. 

A dance for you
A dance for you
A dance for you,
In the unmade bed.
 

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Stopping to smell the roses. Not a social media influencer. I want to be rich.
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