JP on ADC's assignment

You told me to fuck on a cross
a degenerative consecutive poem

I. first time

We painted it hot pink, draped
emancipated underwear (a collection
of contour pouches, lace, thick
elastic waistbands and underwire),
glitter-shellacked it to that motherfucker
and dressed it up in pre-used memory
foam from a seconds-mattress store.

The cross, a sharp pink candy cane
fucked with fluffernutter
was what you fucked me on.

Fucked me, because fucking is
fucking both ways. A friend of mine
likes to say “I want you inside me”
when he’s inside them. A dick
like a möbius strip, that’s what
you give me, hard as physics,

twisted like the tips of a handlebar mustache.

Now is tense
with sticky painted parts
a memory away from blood.

The Y-axis hangs over
the edges of your smushed bed.
We accomplish things in quadrants,
bridging I-III, II-IV, the sparkly
iridescence projecting Mandlebrot
graphs onto our surfaces, sweat
curving parabolas that exponentially
rivulet down skin.

Make polka dots on my skin
by slapping me with foam. Locus-
ts buzz beneath the underwear, a
divine report from Mr. Jesus, but
we resined god’s mouth shut –
so much for nostalgia.

As you come, wood piercing
through sticky and soft, the compounded
eyes buzzing Leviticus at your labia,
your larynx, the compressions
remind me of the pumping, flapping
valve on my testicles, and I hail
the inner pinkness that cuddles all things close.

II. eggs ‘n’ bakey

“Do you have any idea what time it is?
Where’s my inhaler? Where’s my heart-
burn pills? You know I can’t go without.
Fine. I’ll make you breakfast. No, it’s seven
in the fucking morning. You’d better put on some
clothes. Yeah, but me and my roommates
walk around in our underwear all the time.
Keep the blinds closed. You should
probably go look in the mirror – yeah,
your hair’s a little nuts. Nah, I told you
I have to go to work early. I’d like to,
but I’ve gotta prep for a presentation.
Four. Maybe, but you know how it is
getting out of work, I need to decompress
when I get home. Scrambled? Cool.
OJ? Coffee? I get it on the way to work,
besides I can’t eat anything for a half
hour after I take my pills. Where’d you
put them? I don’t mean you, I was talking
to myself. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got
way too much to do before I go to work,
do you mind? Wait, let me get your number.
Yeah. Mm-hmm? I coulda sworn that was
your – I’ll just cross it out, no big. I’ll call
you soon? Yeah. Sure. Later.”

III. The Third Day

And in my bed, God rested,
having sublimated earth and sea
from springs and goose-down.

Please – cut out from me
whatever’s necrotic, whatever
flesh remains inert, unmoving.

And in my bed, She rested,
lightly snoring, the light drool
residue a host, a relic, an indulgence.

Cull from my fat all iotas
of caring, of kindness, of all
things soft and rotting inside me.

And in my bed She takes all
the pillows, lays spread-eagled,
poking me with the sharpest elbows.

Make me an altar of uncut
ribs. Calcify my heart. Strew
abandoned rocks inside my stomach.

And in that morning, She called
unto me for pancakes, for hot
cross buns, for a cuppa joe.

Edit out all instances of not
you. Make my mind a vacant house
of mirrors, still projecting your picture.

Make me in a better image.
Defeat what’s dead inside me.