Playing Daddy. Each time I scrape a scab
my blood globs out like blackberry jelly.
Time to clot. Time to plague. Time to go stab
at my congealed crust while gangrene honeys.
Rot as nectar. November brings septic
shock; kiss me and you’ll taste canker, manhood,
fruitless patriarchy. Love curdles thick
as phlegm and grieves. Bratty be good; by “good,”
I mean, “Come embrace this toxic attempt
at a father figure that only fucks.”
Cum and December’s corrosion will make
sex-rot sexy again. Daddies might tempt
others, but we know that they’re still eunuchs
while Love consumes us like a plague’s outbreak.