Abecedarian Failing the Bildungsroman Formula

Always, since childhood, I had a
Beautiful dick, and a beautiful ass. I was told so I
Could know. After knowing, I learned heart from a tape of
David Bowie, and Life on Mars? turned me off from
Every film I watched afterward, even the ones with all-but-name
Faggots, like Withnail and I, or The Matrix, or,
God forbid, Fight Club, the all-pretending. The first rule of
Hot-box cinema leg rooms is: You can get caught; no one gives a shit.
Into sweat, that marvelous, cruel not-act, I grew too quick.
Just pretend you didn’t
Know me from the inviting sulcus, or with it how
Loud
Mini-speaker Diana Ross was in the
Night, simultaneous
Orgasms drove to temporary fevers. Do they
Peel, plaster on wall, our transgressions? Video and send them to me,
Quadruped and made, time-lapsed and swallowing. The truth, still,
Rearing, is I liked it—I liked you. I was
Sexed that way. I am sexed
That way. I am anti-sexing, desperate for sexing via
Unsexing. Horny for a summer body with
Violent bends and enormous shape-shift. Wild split from
When another kid took our tickets and one long look at you, scrawling
X’s in confirmation of having paid, being paid, and the machinations behind
You, paying. One wish now, in far season. At my nth-time funeral planting
Zexmenia in the dry soil, I want to have changed.

Read more from Issue 22.2.