Flat Soda

Push your boxes down the hall
and fuck me like some penny-for-a-faggot
you flipped up on the flecked and scuffed linoleum,
a bar-round lounger with brown eyes bloodshot
by the fifth shot of the clearest liquor with
the best name he could find.

I am your flesh and thesis,
culmination of the transgressions
collected by the same fingers you shoved
between my teeth and cheek: with academic precision
to compensate for the erection when I told you
I might have come when he said,
or at least thought my name
by the last thrust,

because his cock felt a lot like yours: uncut,
velvet and fatter in my mouth with
strings dark but luminescent
like natural amber,
the last black spider
wriggling in a red cup
on the dining room table.

Degrade your simple pleasures.

Nothing of yours means anything more
than stirring curiosity at our doorstep
when the truck finally arrives
and CO2 evades liquid,
yet you wilt.