October Poem 7: Manufacturing Consent

She looked at my TV to say, look at

All that sex. To bring me out of my work.

To peck the eyes pumping in a grotesque

Caricature. And I said, what sex? That

Isn’t even what sex looks like. To pull

My mind from the growing ashes off the

Burning end of my cigarette. The burn

And urge of my male being. The subtle

Give and take of mental combat. I reached

Out to brush the tops of my fingertips

Against her cheek. To take deliberate

Each step to sooth the sting behind my eyes

With her wet flesh. Like the blood drained from the

Exotic verities in poetry.

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