thank god,

i’m not him.

yet that’s no less,

no more,

just showing off them,

as if rally cries or custard pies

would do it for me,

as if she sings and I dance

as if I see one breast and fall

drooling sweaty

onto my knees and beg, pray, growl,

this is the majestic orange derision

portrayed by hot temptation

glassy eyed morbid space