A Game Is Something You Can Win

maybe something kind of fun

What do they call it when you banish yourself, my favorite God Boy?  My little Field Chicken?  "Bloodsport," said through gritted teeth and bloodied lips; no shiners but plenty of twinklers.  Could be an act of war or just be the way you feel about a certain little curtain rod, depending on how much meaning you try to insert into it.

He says to come now, he says he is wearing a condom for protection, he calls me Dickstroyer, Creator of His World.  I have fucked you at least twelve times in three days.  You say, hey ... 13?  Now, how am I going to say no to that?

There is a place in Japan.  No wait, it is in China.  And wait, it isn't a place.  It is a compound and it is called the Garden of Dispossessed Favorites.  It is where the king's lovers had to live after they had served their purpose.  But you won't find me there, no.  Hell, no.

I'll be over here, hanging out on the Porch of the Red Snow, smoking, dranking, doing really not much at all.  And you can come sit next to me if you like, on the porch, sit or set a spell, shoot the shit, surely you can think of something pleasant to say, to please me just for a little while.  But I make no good time promises 'cause I accidentally dropped my brain right in when I was stealing a sip from the Well of the Pearl Concubine, and I wondered what is that clanking sound, as it bounced off the sides on the way down, so now all I do is sit here and pout, tell stories, pass the hours however I must until you are ready to lay me low again.  One time I bought him a sweater, it cost several hundred dollars because it was made of the finest fiber.  It was navy blue and on the front it said, "Liberator."  But he never wore it so I unraveled it all and made a blanket out of it to keep warm on these cold Porch nights.  The longest wait is the one between last sex and next sex.

Psyche!  That's just my lonely doppleganger, left her there to take the heat; meanwhile, I'll be off in a club called Hall of Supreme Harmony, shaking my ass in some Jamaica-rape whore attire, self-actualizing to dubstep, and having sex on all the beaches you said you always wished we would.  Or I'll just come get in bed and fuck you sleepy again.

May I please have another thorazine for my long island iced tea, please?  I like 'em strong or I don't like 'em at all.

Knock-kneed and at your service,

Martyr of Moderation