*by someone who’s read “it’s just flesh”*
(frankie leone, just a man)
*the screen pokes you into my mind. hollywood villains wear you without apology. street-corner thugs stab you into my consciousness. old photographs of sailors display you with defiant past tense.
this child admires all your cameos in his eye-path. someday he’ll have you.*
*you mark a man with a beard and unkempt hair walking towards the convenience store. you tell me he’s been places he shouldn’t have.
you tell me he’ll buy an eleven-year-old a pack of cigarettes. i pull the product of this man’s moral flexibility into my lungs.*
*you’re spackled through a crowd of teenage punk rockers, aging skinheads, and hopeless squatters. cbgb’s smirks around your bearers. you look dangerous. you look sexy.
i long for you all over my marred skin.*
*rhythmically, you drill in the kitchen of a shitty one bedroom apartment. it hurts. i’m silent the entire time. maladjusted youth of a crew whose emblem you drive into me watch.
it’s my first time.*
*you start defining my upper body. you come onto my chest and stomach, my arms. i swear i’ll never let you onto my hands, neck, or face. eventually you wear me down.
you spread sparrows, guns, swirling cursive, kings, broken bottles, laurel wreathes, gothic lettering, sacred hearts, roses, clocks, straight razors, women, spiderwebs, and clipper-ships across me.
i want you. i need you.*
*i get older, rougher.
you get more thoughtful. intricate. detailed.
you gave me a scrapbook. i gave you this flesh for its pages.*