This is life conducted by stoplight.
It is aching, itching, pre-orgasmic; craving
the familiar hook of every song,
epileptic with eagerness.

He tells me, this tawny-haired, dark-eyed
big boy with leather pants and commando arrogance,
that I am a misconception perpetuated by
two thick straps on a black linen corset dress,
tight on the hips and low in the neck--better
to display his bruising yellow-violet rapacity.

In the back seat of a LeBaron
(and everywhere else manageable),
I had a thirty year old heart attack,
and now I want another one.

We are titular titanium and effeminate
rock legacy, now addicts reduced to this:
blue-purple tissue smashed under glass,
ugly with veins.