i have two men in my computer.
they are my men. i have them
do the same movements over
& over. i am one of 60,000
viewers. i loop the bit
where the fat man spits
in the slighter one’s mouth.
open he says & the mouth opens.
i know they’re not doing this
for me, though they are.
even the pretense of privacy,
an exhibition. what a gift to join
their performed intimacy.
& me the blankness stuck
somewhere in the staggered
breath stabbed out of the bottom’s
chest, his language made rough
& inarticulate & still we all
understand what he wants.
the amyl opens the black eye wider,
the fat man’s brown back tongues
the light as it thrashes. i repeat
this sequence a non finite number
of times. for them this is done
uploaded & passed. for me this
is passage out of a dying country.
this is proof through erasure
i can become the thing ridden
& the thing that rides, the pulse
hanging, a ghost inside two men,
safe & unkillable. i make love
to these dead images, filmed
six years ago, i make it new
each viewing, foul thirsty youth,
each time the man says open,