mutated heart

how to represent

the decade i took

gradually caring

less and less

i really need

just a pickled egg

on a fork

a slice of warm bacon

and a bottle of pilsner

a few bottles of pilsner

a nap in the afternoon

nappe on the back of a spoon some peace

on your back, rested your head on my knee

drunk, passing out

your cheekbones poking

i took a peek

but that's it

you were asleep,

and i was fucked so

earlier, looked at the tops of your breasts

you jabbered things about wine

“I think...”

down from across the table

i saw you breathe

you, sitting down next to me

i stuffed my hands in my pockets

leaned my chair back

spoke in the abstract

you tested my thighs with your hands

i flexed up

you slept on my couch

i was in my bed

between sleep phases

pressing my dick into

the matress
then

3am

the floorboards creaked

your feet testing the hardwood

no logic to be found in those fuckers

eye half open,

watched your form

fumbled the door

closing it quietly behind you

in the dark

snapped the lid of the toilet up

sat down

and sprayed piss

for a whole minute

crept back.

i slept lightly.

you woke up, and went to work.

drew me a note

signed your name

with a

brutal, perfect

heart

that only practice could mutate

i wrapped myself in your blanket

but I think about you instead

crushing it between your legs

and i hold it to my chest

careful not to inhale

too hard

don't wanna spend it

smoke

they say we're talking six million
people here.
makes me wonder if there could be
any coincidences
will i run into you
comme des aquarelles?
will i see the face i knew,
round, bright, troubled by
nothing significant,
the universe only slightly
weighing on your soul
or something different
a new pair of glasses, a new style, a
stroller, conscientiously chosen
or in exasperation
or a cigarette at your lips
will i have to thank god for that?

nope, curls smoke into the evening from
the 9th floor,
a cabbagetown apartment,
ya could be way down there
having love
or loved
on your way over to bay street south i imagine or,
one of those brick colleges, or,
sherbourne street
on wheels
going uphill yep,
been going uphill
myself too,
so
it's going
going good?

my forehead

my fingers

from walking

they all knuckled up

like a ballet foot

all taped up

worn into function

yellow

zombie yellow pus and weeping into silk

wet, all fucking balled up

clotted up

take a look

my forehead?

that's you.

visiting hours are on

i've got my legs crossed in the waiting room

read shouts & murmurs

thinkin a you

“Scott?”

my cock does a skip.

images of

you

fucking, smirking

hors

i’m a transplant

that’s it.

hors d’oeuvres at the brewery
knew that night,

for whatever reason put on my dress shoes

escalating whispers to you things i can't remember

wound up in your apartment

something not part of the ordinary set of courses in a meal

the pinging of aluminium crutches 

your leg was completely fucked.

where steel arthroscopes jabbed around

unaware of pain / in caves

pins were hammered ligaments

were cranked in by screws
threaded through bones

i softly kissed the incisions

the exact spot

snow fell,
i was moved
shit, i had to walk by your place to get home

i left footprints

and footprints
on the sidewalks

by your door.

come spring

i got pressed

into soil

cuddling up next to my bedroom wall
walls painted lemon pudding yellow, as awful as the day you'd first seen them

the one you zig zagged with your iron ring

plaster gouges i will still consider in good light when i lie on my left side,

listening to you shift in the bath

talking shit, angry

for a couple hours

hand on my dick

eventually, you drained it

the water glugging down

the pipes

in glugs