when the body stills,
it becomes another, wears the bed,
its silken skin, like limbs, like are we still good,
are we still good? & a standing body is cocked,
its pistol between legs, blushes a smile. bed body
sheds the hanes underwear, its loose skin, feels
its abdomen, a burr against the fleshy meat.
bed body touches its own pistol,
not cocked, plush filling hand, glances into
standing body’s navel—a tunnel, a fisheye—
are you down for the cause?—& it speaks with it’s mouth
fully open, tongue lackadaisical.
it points to the pistol.
bed body not cocked, slides into prayer position.
mouth gaped. eyes sullen, closed.
these days, i’m letting god handle all things above me.
pink swallows it knees; it’s another mouth of sorts,
the way it teases the caps, the famined thing—standing body
is impatient & unloads itself early.
bullets tear through the flesh.
blood dripping from the lips.
bed body is a shell. empty, wanting to die again.
*the italicized lines are from “Jungle” by Drake*