How do you fuck me? Let me cunt the ways.
Inside as far as can be measured:
depth x breadth x height
of black matte silicone phallus
You atop me with your top
complex and adamant hand, me
kneeling to the mythos of your body and
opening opening opening
into a gorgeous blur
(though i despise hierarchy i
did like it when you
called me a good boy
and cried out
your momentary god)
Variation 2 on Liz’s Sonnet #43
How do we fuck with phantoms? There are ways.
To blur one body into broader strokes
Depth and breadth and height strapped on
Self-palimpsest prosthesis to a dream.
We fuck in the morning like teenagers
Hot with need, and again by candle-light.
We fuck in stereo, to fill the night.
We fuck in mythic splendor, free to scream.
We fuck in tongues among our forms described
Infinite in translation, and unsung.
We fuck in fucking pain we’ve turned aside
From, soft dark places. We fuck, infinite breath,
Rage, joy, of all our lives; and, so divine,
We shall but love and love beyond our death.
Theo Armstrong (they/he) is a figment of your imagination.
They are currently interested in playgrounds and compost piles.
They are always interested in glitter.