Image by Nikos Patsiouris. Reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic License.
Ex-Boyfriend on the Beach
I pissed on a church the blameless ships and the bough
twisted aways; I kissed you in the narthex for sandy
seconds, cruised into the ocher culpability of summery
tributes there is a lingering government in this fade
out for pixels may sting they may wake you nightly
“trust” blisters, dematerializes, the magic of your brain
roasting under a long prospect of crystal stars, as if
a dawn was made for us or surrendering, fettered gulls
given into the sea, the sweat on a can of diet soda
that sort of thing, your coarse tongue enjoying the ridges
of the roof of my mouth and the hustle the ride to
the edge of the island in a stolen moving van, slaves
producers, poetasters, and the emergence of a new
vernacular, what the all-seeing eye cannot capture
and the fictional data crowding my view from this
time share pull the strings your sunglasses dip
down the bridge of your nose, sweat mixed with
sunscreen and dried come splashes into your eye
and from a nostalgic and forlorn vantage I watch
the endless slideshow, ersatz vacations, pictures of
you turning somersaults, turning gold in the comely
glow of another yet another fucking impossible beach
the fantasy of a finch with a potato chip in her mouth
the day that I know I need to meet you at the end of
The Road to the Temple of Honour and Fame
Does a diamond desire itself?
The eagle we know is better than he we do not
flying in a frigate, preparing to live
vibrancy and rise, just to say and try it out.
While we might as well, might not
it does not seem that you learned from your own example
men and woman and a walk down Madison
small counties, piteous churches, lurching
you’re not going to be able to stand up to this.
What is the thing that we need, what is it
is it what I take from you when I touch your cheek
or what disappears before me in the dank cave?
Put your hand inside me and become political
caress an idiot farm girl in the outhouse out
at the edge of the formal property, attain
or arrive on the bus every day like the rest of them
we all come on the bus we all bow down to masters
of how we do, how we work it out, windows.
I don’t know about you but I was born
to burn the land up
chock full of sin and wonderment
and right now all I want to do is walk down the street
with you and cogitate my small rebellions
I was alone until I met the ghetto guy on the Down Low
asked his HIV status, he said, “I don’t know none of that shit.”
His grandma was in the living room, he cried
as he fucked me, I used it as cruel fuel, I dreamt
that my mother took me to the cinema to see Snow White
when I was a little child, buckled up in the back seat
bellowing for alternative monies and preparation
savage as it is, it is the stand, it is where it is going
desire, desire, desire, give me the Supreme Court
give my dad a simpler time when men were men
and a boy could fend off comestible hegemony
by one wave of his magic wand in the parking lot
the eagle opens and clutches, we make the relationship.
We go away, we let a formidability pass and spread
put you on the floor girl you are good, you’re dead.
I will make a hundred of you and drop grave
before it is gone away, before it is generated and mad.
We are your mistaken parents, motion for the speaker
on the previous question to table the appeal
on the outstanding parliamentary procedure
to foreclose the following vote for
the approaching amendment for procedure
forecloses and proceeds to the ground
and gets made to be a worse species of your unconscious love.
These poems appear in The Lifted Brow #26. Get your digital copy here
Lonely Christopher is a poet and filmmaker. He is the author of the poetry collection Death & Disaster Series (Monk Books, 2014) and the short story collection The Mechanics of Homosexual Intercourse.