Ethan Fortuna

poetic tragedy

                        for Bert McCracken, lead singer of The Used

thumb just

under your fringe

my low-rise shimmied. my

pre

transition cum gutters drummed up

from hours in cincinnati february—

hair extensions torn, a water bottle

to the face that, I imagine, was

wedged and buckling over

a tiny devil;

i cut my sixteen

yr old teeth on your toilet,

sandwiched the bulimic emo boy

in my unnamed bore

hole—which stayed open, especially

after you said, when I asked for

your autograph

I can see your pubes —what

daintiness pebbled at the

fray of my waistband, these

defects of humiliation

glossed and honed;

an unseen bearing

thrust down; an abacus

littered with palmettes

sick for your spit.

your songs, i sing them still—

oh well

my kneecap puckered in the glass cylinder, tiny shoots

with needle-hole heads of truculent dew like vaginal discharge

tonal pleasure-waver, so

I saw his face that rose away showering its floors of cyan

a risk is a tearing whose fibrous slips denote agential

burrowing

...kneeling to rise in a manner of stitches, orderly,

demurely like x's in curtseys -- I wobbled up, fucking

out that girly plant dementia

my thick dun braid, silver poles let from slit attentions,

made a mute spot of feeling, doe's hole, increasingly

sticky on our interceding table

but by the time I got my radiant prism face on a level across his

the walls bulged in excessive rot from taking in our erotic disdain and

were spurting pathetically like so many incontinent fractals

and as much as our deepening begged to sink a common pit,

his words were his

mine, mine

YEAST ZOMBIE

Standing on the planks, I wanted to fucking die for that bronze waste. I MUST  

EXCRETE THE      

MIRACULOUS.

I gave him that. What it is I would want. To go over

Every sentence. Dad. To tell you what it MEANS.

We bent.

Guided through ] leaky fillies,

Through balustrades of

SCOPOPHILIA. eking plantar, bron.

So back to rearview.

Rolled up magazine. surveillance.

into the texture of your anger.

Unroughened edges of barbie boxes lining

Shelves over pewter caked work boots and

cats’ fur.

Closet-comb of plume,

Post-syngery,

Still solid is

The sick future you labor I [labor] in your debt

[In debt] I’ve taken to passively imagining

Igneous firth

Cupid firkin

Well let’s make it a dick stone, sea tale

Im a dirty old clown in a puddle of thigh sweat

Put more olives in my mouth

Do you want my yeast zombie in your mouth

So you keep the bloat, forestall bobbing,

With blue wingtips / yellow conical

prolific -- . Elastic dawn

muscle car kindred with

body builder though lid

counter theory -- that have it

( building ) is for sake of

(expanding erogenous)(of surface)

avidity - Brain involute

doesn’t really match hollow

heavework of beginning

I have - poetics of

restrained-lever-the-bicep

--bulked beyond need...

athletic fascination silky lumbar

pleather planks addiction to grip

such referential agency - passively

built... foot mould,

kneepad... readerly

retreat - cloudsilk - frozen urine - latex

body as complex economical release - pale

lime or leached