The porn wars are over and the whales are on the shore
ready to take the fallout – the guilt, the shame, the trespass
offering made in curtained bedrooms while your wife
cooks supper and prepares her morning address to the nation.
I loved a woman who taught me porn was wrong. I loved
her and met her at the station when summer was a girl
in a dress under a tree fighting off the sweaty palms
of a children’s entertainer in a red velvet jumpsuit.
You are my darling and you dream of whales
and relocate to paradise and the blue, blue coast
under volcanoes of fascists and simmering orange landscapes
where gender is violently ill yet irredeemably lecherous.
I’m your poisoned vanilla thumb, babe. Please suck me dry,
but remember I won’t get hard until I’m enlightened.
Masculinity is debased and prurient; old empires
cluster…
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