1/28/09

Figuring / Fingering

Like Bruce Springsteen and people who pretend to be poor cause they think it makes them seem real I want to celebrate this thing until it becomes an altar, man. Fly me into my concerts and carry me home.I'm a singer and I sing the point of a personal ad: "I've made my bed, who wants to fuck me in it?"

We pose like moms with open arms legs. Gesture as if giving. Our posture? Generosity. All this fucking cheer and goodwill and listing like catalogs as if a menu as if edible. Like you're in a restaurant. You can have anything you want. Here are the things I am offering: me, myself, my pleasure, I, a spot for you in the "we" of the evening, before everything we're scared of happens. We don't offer TIME, ever, to each other. I act generous submissive but I offer only the exact things I'm hoping you'll take and in the order I want you to take them. You think you're going to fuck me and you think you're giving me what I want and you think you're really in control now, huh? Even on top of or underneath me you think that you're really "getting" me, the "real" body accessed through some alchemy of vaseline sweat and gin, you think you've found a key. You think it is through your malevolent femme good looks, your perfect uncurved dick, your haircut, your eyes (correct me: what color are they exactly? all i see is glass and plastic). You think you are just so tough you can take me away from myself. You think you are so real that you can call the reality out of me. Honey I led you here. The trail of breadcrumbs the trail of white stones shining up in the moonlight it ends with me. I hid it, it pretend my hands are tied up and underneath my pillow. I wrap my arms around your neck I'm not choking you I am taking your pulse and making go slower faster. My fists are filled with the bait that brought you here, you're too turned on to know how to ask for it by name, huh?

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