.
What I would say if I
were you, I’ve no idea, although
I must confess I am
lasciviously curious to have a go
at being you, that is, to look and sound
and move
like you while inside
being me, thereby to prove
.
no one will care who’s
at the helm of your identity.
In fact the thrill that
I might overwhelm your entity
with crude
shenanigans that lewdly put you on display
as if you’d dumped
your dumbass self upon a shelf to play
.
an even ruder role than
usual is a beguiling possibility –
I think I’ll do it!
But – whoa. (Oh!) No, no. The imbecility
of what is likely to
ensue as I eschew my body to become
the thing inside whatever
you have done to your glum
.
flesh and then to watch
you take the likely copy-cat revenge
you’d carry out
ineptly: climbing into my skin to avenge
the wretched mess to
which I’d have subjected
you by torturing my soma until thoroughly infected
.
with your bestially unholy
pestilence, so that it sweats
and stinks, offends
like the aroma I recall abets
the awful rot and
wreck of you that I’ll be caged in.
Now I wonder why in
hell I’d want to have engaged in
.
anything as sordid
and unbalanced a catastrophe
as making me climb
into you, or you climb into me.
So forget this
letter, burn it. Don’t admit you’ve seen it.
Pretend I didn’t send
it. Pretend I didn’t mean it.
.
(Threats of a Violent Act are what sponsor
the virulent flirting of monster and monster.
But who said the point was to soothe?
The course of true love never did run smooth.)
.
.
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