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HEART THROB
Put a man in front of me and make him disgusting. Give the man some kind of perversion of which he is deeply ashamed. This is the man for me. Make his mouth say: I want to fuck you face down on a bed of chicken wings. Make his cock stand up. There is my man. I am of the opinion that one ought to do a thing the whole way. Make him recite a poem he wrote about his sadness. Make his sadness completely sincere. And his hopelessness. And his belief that he is not to blame. And his efforts to laugh at anything outside himself. And his shame. And his shame. And his ideas about who he still might be one day. And his ideas about his own intellect. And his conviction that he is misunderstood. And his hatred of women. And his appetite. And his appetite. And his appetite. Make him tell me I’m so fucking stupid. Curl his meaty hand into a fist. This is the man. This is the man for me. Infect him with something then give him my address. Make him bloody and send him my way. |