A Poem

His boy through the kitchen 

With lights in his eyes and 

Fire in his walk

Treads amongst the grit lain land 

With no life but his.

Glaring from the spot 

I leech off the slight quiver in his smile. 

Resting on walls 

Becomes the most certain aphrodisiac, 

But how in the absence of matter can

Sentients be with us

Apart from our creased cushion spots

And fake people, 

You recorded the most aggressive film - 

In the presence of them we’ll watch the                    

                             porno later.

The back of your head is different from             

           the front 

Yet again the profile is off as you turn,

I know your smile,

Strange longing for something that can’t be.

                                Oh god,

The longing is every strain,

Latched from my chest, 

Into every heaven.

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