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Look at this mess. Leaning forward to lube

up your ass. Ease the curved plug in as you


kneel. Feel you shift around it. The flashcube

on the Instamatic. The Siouxsie Sioux


8-track. The neon dashiki. The joke

about finding fireworms in the cherry


pit. I still don’t get it. We’re friends who stroke

and pet and play. Friends who love the dandy,


dandyess, dandizette … Fret with the heart

string, it is always messy. You shall wear


that plug, lodged in the birthplace of fragrance,

within the core of your flesh. There is art


and craft to this; filling you like fool’s prayer,

dunce’s grace, like all that is not absence.