Gregory Klassen - Untitled

I’m arranging a special night for you; I’ve waxed the floors and am waiting for
the first boy to arrive. He has the military build the stern jowl and stark blue
eyes. I’ll pin him on the wall with the rest, back toward you, pants down,
with a different type of lube at every foot. I thought I’d make some money
while I was at it so I got 12 different companies to contribute their products
in a survey I call The Stride.

Boys with huge cocks walk differently than the lesser endowed. I learned this
from my straight friends; they talk extensively about shape, size, the presence
or absence of hair on the back and endurance. Straight boys don’t know this
but word gets around and now I know what to look for. I sat at the corner of
Broadway and Pike sucking down coffee watching carefully how they move. I
plotted red balloons where their feet fell so I could decipher it from the air.

You told me you wanted them lined up ready to fuck, no obligatory hand-jobs
or allowing them to touch or look at you. I figure I’ll only know you for 5 more
days so I may as well spoil you rotten.

Wear my best tie to pick you up at a cheap train station. Throw dry ice at
your feet. Serve you tender and slightly raw varieties of meat, no vegetables,
only protein, I’ll need you energized, filled with extra blood from other animals.

I plan to take as much from you as I can, set you up in scenarios you only
used to jerk off to. I’ll make it real, spoil the fantasy, keep you on your toes,
make you think of things I cant surprise you with, luncheons with the
president, secret service gang bangs, Nicaraguan vacations, lions with huge
staggers and terror throughout their head. Stranded and stretching when you
are alone and horny in the bathroom of an airplane being thrown from
scratched metal side to matted toilet floors. You’ll curse and love me at the
same time.

I refuse to fix things anymore, I take what they call broken and file my fingers
down to stubs with it; you chain yourself to a radiator for hours on end. It’s
all for you, that’s the best part of it, there are no admirers peering through
office windows, wired for sound.

I was a showboat, being beat up and pinpricked and wheeled away.
I’d spend days in an isolation tank, just floating and hungry. It’s all I could hear.

I want to be a heretic, spread out, each limb tied with rawhide to the bony
insides of a horse, naked and flailing, waiting for the steeds to quarter me.
I want to be fucked by an entire football team, a daisy chain of dangly boys
scratching at the clotted ground piercing through families of worms as they
keep themselves hard, waiting for their turn at me.

Take me to a half empty bar called the Underpass; throw me onto the pinball
machine while the cowboys and college boys and truck drivers fuck me
over and over again.
Take handfuls of peanut shells and grind them into my ear so baseball games
and circus clowns will finally be a turn on.

Aim shotguns at my head then blow out my kneecaps
make me an insect
backwards and seeping.

Sit me on your lap, small and aching for pop rocket blue tongues and held for
days.
I want raunch explicit and spit for lube.
I want surprise blows to my head and back.
I want to feel like the only thing better than fucking you would be to die while
fucking you. A harpoon or hacksaw swift through my skull the last thing
I see is grayed out pillows, that last wink and sly grin before I fade out and
dream of softer things, the whites and curly hues of a love that others live by.

I want a girl who’ll get turned on by planning my funeral. Fervor and sweating
looking through a shoebox of photos and letters, something to sum it all up
for family and friends.
Someone bold enough to throw me against hardened objects, something
time has carved through; an old temple made of moss and femur donated by
unaware farmers and inner circles of holy men.

I experience gratitude through impermanence, how everything is going away,
how everything is on loan to me and it’s my job to appreciate it while it’s in
front of me, how it’s not as heartbreaking as it used to be.

Cling to my lips like the Shroud of Turin draped across my brindled ribs sunken face,
watch as I breathe in and out
giving Jesus his life back until mine has ceased.
An optical illusion I will inspire millions.

God has always been in my head, a reprieve from failed organs and
monuments made of mothers and twig from tired shrubs.
Dead friends soaked in formaldehyde and love so strong I still feel them in
my belly. Isolated and floating. I want to adore it all, the leftover broken
half-mauled,
half-eaten stride of a species
traced back to our blood.

It is the terror throughout my head, the need for something silver and brazen,
the reason why I need your sickness to love you, complete.

It’s why god gives us one last chance to appreciate it all, everything, not
just the parts we deem gorgeous and memorable. It’s the photo you won’t
find, the flash of everything, nothing omitted, one last-ditch effort for us to
appreciate him before we die.

There is livestock strewn across the desert, scientists and instruments
measuring their fall. There are hoards of people, professionals, experts
always investigating the fall.

A 2-month old in a garbage can, a finger in your chili, a series of dead
women. A gulch full of Jews, a pig we’ll make our pet, one more child taken
in a white Ford Expo. The splitting of an atom, a sergeant without a head, the
parts we deem horrid and inexplicable and evil driven.

We have enlisted a strange army, a gaunt army of the grief stricken, the rabid,
looking for the cure, the solution to the ugly, the wiping out of an entire
creation; the inexcusable endeavor of reversing gods work. Clouds of red dirt
I cannot decipher from the air.

I have patted down the left side of my bed, an amateur attempt to outline
your body.
I will know you for a total of five days.
I intend to spoil you rotten, slide sweet and cold down your throat, invest
in my future.
Send in meals made by baffled, angry farmers.
Love you intensely, fix nothing.

Tie balloons to my hands while god makes maps of us.
Plotting my movements, I ache
for the fall.