Anxious Aesops

He would wear me like this. All pimples and chancre sores. To reinforce the aristocracy of appearance. I would let him. Because it seemed to be true. That beauty is all that separates. The alcoholics and the poets. A thin membrane between cunt and cock shouts its stories at the deaf.

Sure. I would try it on. The luster and allure of dying animals. Awakening the Hunter in me. The partition. At her ass. The sliding door. Closed. Then open. No one out there. Or in. Like a nervous comedian. Fiddling with the dials on this catastrophe.

I would lay down. Pretending I had what I wanted. The future taunting in stiff jabs. As the outline colored in. The flesh the mortar. The moment the bricks, Building bigger walls around these obvious prisons.

He would wear me. And I would let him. Those candy houses temptation too much. We'd negotiate with the witch. With dull ice skates. Struggle over the surface. About children warm in the wolf's belly. Not to eager to be released.

I couldn't tell you the moral of this story. But I suspect it's there somehow.