Yohimbe

BuzzFeed said

you’re downhill, meaning

the pain was just

another date.

You asked harder,

which was always

harmless

as strong teeth

milk

or fingernail moons,

i.e. “Your testicles

are eating you

or there isn’t enough

or the base

is disappearing

behind you.”

This morning,

eating supplements with

new sex

energies

you picture

snakes with little

fire tongues licking

everywhere.

Your snout

throngs immaculate.

Rooting from the chair,

no god spittled

between

you and what

you sponge,

you open

the game room

where sweat

clings

in the dark

like cattle:

her stare, you think,

ungrateful

immolated toward

nothing

like all sentient cushions

who cannot move,

in anguish.

Plastic throats

click wide over

green deserts,

amusing

your pelvis beaded

with sunlight,

disclosing how

things merely end

when

they end.

And how you want

to be more

terrible

than the quietest

cancer.