Gentle Future
The oppressive atmosphere, just before
lightning is woken:
the oppressive atmosphere of
an anemic Sunday collapsing on itself
like whoever’s body that was
that body was my body
And are you terrified
that cruelty wins
the match?
Are you terrified
that cruelty
smashes the crucial
physical plane
of intelligence?
That was supposed to be
our redemptive scene.
Sometimes even flushed
lust is not the redemptive
scene, not the denouement
fondly forgiven by critics
who know better;
sometimes the body feels
forty degrees celsius pressed up
against the impossibility
of a gentle future.
The impossibility of a gentle future
beneath us
is running its hands
along our asses
and it keeps saying good girl,
and it keeps getting harder.
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