brotherman, are you listening?

i want to hide inside
a denis johnson short story
with you;
      share an addiction/develop a habit
for tea/lithium/junk;
crystal meth or valium;
something sticky
that will supersede our need
for addressing these questions of morality
that have kept us from uncovering our forearms until now.

I want to drown you in your fears,
hit head on your phobia of combustible beds.
force you to lie down with me
on the cheap mattress you predicted would be our coffin.
kill us off the very way you envisioned us going:
passed out in a sweaty sprawl,
cigarette still burning on the corner table where I left it
after fucking your brains out for five hours
on an all night amphetamine-induced bender.

I want to steal you away to a world where crime pays in spades
and adultery is irrelevant.
a land where possession is ten tenths of the law
and my legs swung over your lap equals possession.
let them come, I'll say, puffing out my chest.
I'll scratch out the eyes of anyone foolish enough
to point in your direction and claim they were here first.
I'll spit in the face of any woman bold enough
to introduce herself by way of undressing your back.
as though old war wounds had anything to do with it.
as though her initials carved in your skin
means shit when I've got your dick in my hand.  
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