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The air is getting thick and you won’t come
here. Ah, you cum but not here. You female

presenting nipples you. One day that dumb
joke will be a headscratcher. With fox-tail

anal beads, with zest and tongue baths, the thatch
of my snatch shaved to rubble. Your people

are not my people. They still farm. They still scratch
the earth and make it bloom. Mine are brutal

the way that I’m brutal. The way I’ve sunk
my hands in your hair, guided myself down

your throat, heard you moan and then felt you choke
on air thick as sin. No more hardcore punk

funk, you said. Freedom, I said, is to drown
in cum is the first step in getting woke.