A troll writes, hoping that I’ll die by choking

on my own genitalia… I mean, sure,

if I was *that* flexible, deep throating

myself to death holds a certain allure,

though my gag reflex has proven stubborn.

Something to put on the gravestone. “He died

as he lived.” Maybe: “You living, who mourn

the dead, aren’t very fuckable.” I lied,

neither am I. Still, on mornings like this,

on tea, hash and blow, I *feel* fuckable

and so pretty and witty and… won’t last.

Never does. I remember that last bliss;

before trolls and dark times. Back when carnal

meant all that was joyful, sacred and vast.