Young Mean Blond
The fall is an extension of the somersault, my itch
is at the part of my back I can’t reach and you can.
Blind me and I’ll ignore my handicap
come strut into your shower, neons
gay and hearty. Lift me your chin. I can’t
chase sex with language. Log Cabin Janus’ coterie of birds flap
in a cage dropped from the bridge into the river mourning in
sunglasses and gin.
When your dream thaws you’ll say you thought you had to.
I aim the rain as it plips the stumps and torques the river. Desire, unprecedentable, catches me out on my tether wherever he goes. Would you take me
on your houseboat
lotion up my crack? Let’s relax your shoulders
by cradle or by crow. I’ll turn you back into a stand of silver birch
to rule the Valley of the Idea. Whom else can you attend, crown
Desirable in a Shipmate
To stack the deck for my goals
I assemble men to whom fluency’s
attractive and cocksureness is lure. To pick my stud
in terms of raw numbers
I’m thinking snow
is a perfect example though once I pick I need
only one good bonfire to create intimacy.
In any circus my favorite is the gymnast
bent the way I want. I’ll staple a kite tail to you,
swallow you like a saucer, like I have swallowing
Your tackling me sets in motion
the circuitry of blood meant for my dick meanwhile my grandmothers
get out their daguerreotypes. My grandmothers have
a collection. See this Adam’s apple, they coo, is yours
even close? I think as I swallow, Is it the broom or its closet
that smells like a rabbit hutch?
Thorough as anything physical distance can’t exclude or answer
a phylogenetic chart for eyes is nothing like the experience of sight.
Barbed wire melts almost visible when it’s looked through. Like a blanket
you’re upstairs and on the bed raring
Let’s go. I apologized for the thong-shaped damp spot masturbation left
and which stayed in the humidity for hours. A lap
isn’t a lap if it hasn’t been sat on and pleasure
isn’t planned. We’ve become blind in so many
wary ways. Refusing myself “obligatory” jealousy is my pleasure
built like a longhorn our pleasure touches.
Any more than
one hundred fifty is abstract to us, like a faraway cadence.
John Myers lives in Missoula, MT. His first manuscript was recently selected as a finalist for publication by Omnidawn Books, and his poems are forthcoming in Handsome.