We all have super powers, mine’s I can stare straight into the sun.
Matty skipping after static-colored butterflies, over fields he sees the pollinated silhouettes.
Hot monkeybars in carpenter ants. On the Velveeda slide someone scratched, Life’s bitch fucked my mom too.
In the soccer field they play games back and forth for the netless goals.
The sun rose holding the lagoon with insistent ultra like dogs nailing each other to form some rudder.
He sits in a patch of white mangroves sucking his reading herd’s dicks.
First an older red-haired soccer wraith dense with wrinkling opinions.
All the world will suck dick like you, Matt, when they learn what we know. When they know.
He strokes the buds of his faint spine.
Among the clusters of spur and stinging nettle shiny as tears, while sobbing relays off.
Mesh of scabbard, swollen skin of cheerful damage. They watch the carnage glisten.
Spank clips hallway and playground and open patches of field through the actinium trees.
Sunlight follows him and they gather moss to pretend pubes stall inside.
Pattycake follows them and they salt themselves with children foot dandruff.
Voice feeds him. Serrated boys line their crotches along his mouth, ceremony teethes with piss.
Staring into the sun makes the red come down to curtsy, banish the leftover gravity.
Matthew is what they call and I sit up straight and see dinner ready and hamburger shoreline moan,
spraying ketchup spinnerets, onions scream in the wind. Soggy white fries wander away.
Fingers around kitchen counter edges stroking.
Morning comes from inside, absently stroking and adjusting the dials on the oven, wood struts in the fireplace.
Try not to get yourself burnt, but you can poke, poke ok? poke each room skyless but big, but pressing against my head.
Broken darts the slinking of those recent crowds in halls left again, crossed to the year’s frail sheen.
Look up at the sun and see it is the same, but his shadow chooses its angles now.
They chase him out of each room, street heavy bulbs about hookworms in the rash puddles,
shell-dirt roads, bare feet all torn, bud light ruins. Wire hangers watch, clusters of spongey fruit, rusted mosaic entrails.
Cot eyes became dandelions left alone. Like the dolls who stitch replicas of his shadow all the places he got fingered and fed.
The cove of sea wall, like an echo-shaved arena.
He cried this first night, and when he told me he wasn’t and turned towards the wall
or closed venetian blinds over the open window, I learned a quiet. Wind coos an emptying delight.
Then I held him below me, like how I played the ‘anchor waltz’ at pool parties.
Until the longest day. In place of a name, they would just watch me after that day.
Into the yellow fronds popping up right when the night was feeling so comfy, chugging dream.
Skin enlists palatal maw, embers of sleep fail. Pussy roast and breath dark, gouging new phase.
Tongues mesh in chest stream and his ivy. Spray dawn, he plugs more friends than I know.
Shades begin to pearl, flow over their puddles. Sticky gold, his blink tarnished. That’s that.
Carapace mistletoe dragged out from behind his teeth. Yes, and so it’s finally Christmas for him.
Sieve turns on his translucent body like the tree our intentions never captured.
The Cerberus Gundam he whined after resting silently in a styrofoam package
I spray-painted yellow and dipped in a kiddie pool of hot wax and unicorn stomachs.
The name puckers, soft as feathery matches, awaiting its moment, all too soon.
Then the moment scrunches in and his body believes in me.
Mr. Steele, Mr. Steele, we have open experiment ready in your name, act now!!!
Me a sort of composite of their own control. Their last Tuesdays, baseball tiaras. Radish gingivitis.
Their own set of lips they kiss when I lean in just to smell what time it is.
Under the criss-crossing girders the people nod and hoot and wind scalds their tongues.
Swarm a kind headache in the long street, between the steeples like remoras, my eyes still crumbs here and there.
Iron sea channels glisten, the incandescent boy glittery with sagging bell ligaments and chorus.
He admires anything that can disappear in varying hues.
Calls it the proper disease. I smile at this, almost as if I understand what he means or care to learn more.
Taking my hands, he strokes the porcelain boomerang of his collarbone, and squeezes the nipples, irritating their inert bloom. My jagged wrists peel away the gross cabbage-like tears piled around his eyes in mountains.
When I reach the pupil, I’ve almost lost my own sight. The desert gushes out of him-- or not exactly, just below him.
Just before our us stimulates the atmosphere.
My eyes pulsate out neutron sockets, fields of glass-rinsed faces and bud light smolder.
Flickering orifices begin to ripple out my Sphinx, craving his skinny bannister.
Asphyxiated on dream skin, all staring separates leaving just traces onto dawn.
Light dilutes the eye wind’s sloppy beam for a sec, thinking it won. But then he sighs.
Sprinting down cramped hills, grass yellow grows blue with laugh. Scaled daisies and dandelion gaseous.
Morning dribbles infant air, colliding into the pale asteroids pinnaclated over the thrust of his dark cradle.
Laugh havocs solar flare. My sun resistance just the late echo in the mirror.
Bleary money-shot fixed on columns of alabaster irises watching their subtitles:
no way out but sinking playlist, no way in but forever, Matt. One day they’ll know. One day.
He stands above the scepter of ringworms, body glowing through him scathed yet unopened.
He knows what I’m looking at now, so used to his eternal. I’m used to the quadrants of muscle monorailing through him in flexible horizons. When he begins to devour me, slowest process of them all (so maybe it already started a thousand years ago on the capital of Venus)-- when he moves closer and closer down the way I can tell he wants to, I’ll be set. I was born here, you see.
