Editor’s note: This poem contains descriptions of violence.
This hoarder documentary or the guy who leans over the balcony
to watch me fuck my girlfriend in the ass snap the nape
of her neck into a fingered vice some bones
strongarm the formica table into wood: even the
time when I met K and jerked off for weeks with fire tapping
the voyeur tapes out of my laptop camera.
against the supermarket frozen food coffin
hello ma’am soon the summer like sharp
glue-like shards even her best friend is not off-limits
her shtick is up/the sunshine acid she lets dust sift
sat with corona slick on her thighs.or a sick kind of zoom
tongues the lens. do I need to come
to be happy? what I learned is how to slide duck’s beak digits
slowly to sidestep rectal prolapse or fissure but maybe
this isn’t how you like to think of fucking, the bore-
dom of an afternoon checking out slings
I dream to be in it: swarms of pinpoint fetish
the very precise price of taking a fist to the face I’m in favor
of proper things and breakfast bruschetta cue wifi distortion
when I want to receive and view the file
.Beyond random arrangements a masochist knows
where to look for maximum impact does the trick
kind of affected over the smarminess of leather don’t expect
me to know how to describe
certain orgasms that I’ve had even in good company
let’s make a conscious effort not to imagine or remember
a bank of love wounds inflicted by nonlovers
the essence of skin kinship cracks beneath a gaze like us
nonwomen now other users:
my arm sticking out of your asshole’s puckered rosace
a thin flesh tunnel
Author: Mat Sergent
Image: K H Niehaus
Mat Sergent is a French queer writer who has been published in Ambit, the Belleville Park Pages and Notes.
