here we are.

me stuck helpless in king kong’s meaty palm.

cinema screen flickers over

buttered popcorn eyes

as giant ape towers over innocent metropolis,

clutching a sunscreen-model woman precariously

in his grasp, and the end-credits roll: straight boy

cast as king kong, gay boy as that buxom blonde

helpless,

flinging herself from one empire state building

to the next. straight boy as king kong roars, gay

boy attempts to cower. kong is primal

and gay boy is reformation.

there’s always more movie until there isn’t.

there’s always more bones until they’re broken

on impact. i’d imagine that king kong must

brood; the tower is so lonely. just kong and

woman and police officers telling woman to

fling myself onto the pavement, but not yet.

if this were a different movie,

it would almost be romantic.

straight boy as king kong as casanova

as gay boy as that sunscreen-woman

rescued from that tower. but straight boy as king

kong beats simian fists against barrel chest,

the drum beat cast as the sound

of my bones still cracking

against the pavement and

the end-credits continue to roll:

straight boy as king kong,

i love you. i love you. i love you.

so fling me from that tower.

so scoop me up again.

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