No, I Will NOT Take a Shit-Selfie For You
You are not a viper but you play one
in my heart
ive not known many men. In theory ive known hundreds, thousands, all grossed, rotten and boored. All vile. All of my choosing, so vulgar. How I become what I believe myself to be
the thrill of their ugly: how they grasp. So desperate. Like my skin can grant them peace, my tits and cunt able to quiet the echo of their father’s endless insults. Such intensity. That’s how they come at me. That’s how I love.
There’s a change but
there is not.
It’s a wavering. Handholds appear and I climb. So much promise up top. A shouting down. “You can do it!” The crevasse is black and the voice encouraging. A glimpse of warm sunlight so I climb.
If your feet fill with jiggers, I will be there to scrape them. Pull over on the highway when the screams get too loud. Send me a beacon and I will come with my scalpel. If you give permission I will drag you from the car and lay you down on wet grass. I will call the villagers to watch. They must learn how to save
themselves should this scourge come again.
Your first foot in my lap and I scrape. The thick skin falls away in small, crusted flaps. I am an old man on a porch eating an apple with a knife, but these peels I do not put into my mouth. They fall to the grass, mounding, yellow-brown.
I scrape the jiggers while you moan. It gets my dick hard. I adjust your foot so you can feel it but you are too lost in your suffering. There is a whisper-barrier between pleasure and pain and the sounds that come from both are twins.
I cut the covers from the jiggers dens where they have buried themselves in your skin—their new home. They come out white or black or green and I wipe them away. Your foot becomes cratered and when it is emptied of jiggers, I take the other, begin more work. The villagers stand circle above us; a sunflower.
This is gross but this is love.
Your moans clench my heart.
Many years later, six old whores I fooled into loving me circle my deathbed waiting to see who will get what. I sink into death’s warm calling gazing up at the circle, now villagers, your foot in my lap, your moans soothing my transition.
I take the sound of you to my grave.