waiting for a boy to take my bag outside dufferin station,
the big blue duffel thing paint-stained & exploding socks
shirts skirts pants panties & broken

laptop, i lock eyes with a girl
in a lemon yellow croptop
posted up on the sidewalk,

hey sis, she slinks from somewhere behind
that sweet-sly smile, a jutting eve’s apple,
appraising my spills—i ask how she is.

i’m good hunnie—hey, none of that!!!!
            she scolds me,
clocked my hand in my pocket searching for change.

nananana listen sweetie i don’t need
your money. you let me buy you a burger,
you buy me one next time listen okay
i came here i was in england in london
homeless darling—i had a job
and i thought fuck it i flew
to toronto, it’s a beautiful city honey,
here i can live in shelters and i love it,
and we all split everything
don’t you worry about it, i'm dao.

so i say o i’m gwen i’m on welfare from windsor,
just hopped a freight train north to gawk a boy,

but before i can smile as big as i want to,
or ask her for a drink, how long
she’s sat here on the street—there he is,

adam in his makeshift pageboy suit—
corduroy, silk, & new snakeskin shoes.
later, to mog him, i’ll tell him how
dao and i might disappear down dim alleys,
osmose thru walls to a fetish klub
with backroom orkies at eighty a pop
hacked up by catgirls in their long socks.

we always know each other off the grin alone,
drawn in together, amassing a girlish storm,
wink at boys & rain so hard they’re flooded & floored
there on the cement of the station, blushing aghast—

but impatient adam has worked all day
selling volvos (that stupid suit) & yanks me away
& the turnstile clicks behind us.

on the green line he recounts the toronto petit-bourgeoisie
he’s conned this week at his beautiful new cokehead job
and i think beef, bun, pickles, raw onion, red acrylic
nails, ketchup puddles, long-fingered-fries, fluorescent
lights, shake.

under the moon i confuse you for a fruit
your tinny iridescence & little pure

caloric value. in the muck we suck
at the memory of colour, of the gay

guy who snuck his fuck into the pool
next door.

root systems twitch like a rabbit
vibe, searching out the wet discreet stranger.

sweet public night underfunded by time,
this too shall pass—

our feeling the green night
blades about us as if for the first time

born not of poesie but ritalin sickness.
an orgy of datamaking blissstupidity.

                               PALANTIR IS UP
AND TRADING 46x ON REVENUE.

an alarm clock is like a firing squad
bitcrushed into the mind—NOW—

some unseen sun rises wickedly,
fumbles our orchestra, simpering

tubas wheeze at our expense—
caught naked in a stranger’s home.

there is nothing to do but crouch
and receive God’s wrath.

the kid showed up in town homeless
fifteen and to get clean they sent him down here
to the ass-end of the country with highest
unemployment in all of kkkanada—the joke is
he got taken in by this social worker tranny
who had just flipped her switch to female
and her homo husband was about to ditch her ass
for a young musclefag twunk duh anyways the kid
started shit with the social worker tranny cuz kids
do dumb shit so the social worker tranny
kicks the kid back to the curb and starts
a community centre. before the kid showed up
he was getting prostituted in sudbury ages twelve
to fifteen and he’s not back to that he’s getting
meth cash some other way some boyfriend
i guess which is all too street for the employees
to sort into conceptions of work is work is work
or whatever the fuck, cuz the worst part, he says
to me when i show up at the centre to cop a couple
cans of food or a bra and get roped into this kid’s
entire fucking life story as he’s picking scabs behind his glasses
muttering dragging me to visit his group home
down the road to show me his rick and morty bong,
the worst part is nobody in the centre even talks to me,
they’re giving me the silent treatment, even the volunteers—
this has something to do with some social currency
of language or whatever, you know the sort, so the kid
shows me his bong and we visit some friends of his
in the grouphome, mostly sweet old junkies too old to bother
with being junkies anymore happy to listen to the kid
prattle about shitty metalcore or whatever so eventually
i’m making an excuse to head out and we’re back
on the road and the kid goes so anyways i’m a psychic
and he looks at the red light goes it’s about to turn green
now! … wait wait wait no … now!

                        mycelial sissification degrades
                        our soft XY towards death-drive
                        & living soils of prehistory
                        wreak errogenous decay.

i heard there are no boys on the internet and the internet pranked him really bad and
there was blood everywhere and they couldn’t even find his ribs, which were later
seen hitchhiking on the side of the expressway in cheap PVC maid costumes,

                    two new Eves baiting F-150s
                    with slick little thumbs like slugs
                    making break for the baptism of the sea,
                    obeying a
                                    dulcet demiurge,
                                                              a song
                    so sweetly deep, concealing miles
                    of slimy things,

                  fiending to seize a mound of drowned
                  womanish meat,
                                              becomings-undone.

                  the underground you always wanted
                  to be a part of,
                                          it is wet

                  & slippery in the bottom—LET US SING:

                                         precious girl
                                        special girl
                                        you are fish now.