Exquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life

Fuck Hope
by Nat Hardy
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How this loathing hardboils silent
   beneath cold shoulders
      every time
         duty calls,

   every time
the demand to press
      flesh summons

   love's thespian
to play the possum.

  Indifferent to redneck
     foreplay and that viagra
cutlass like an ulcer
                  in my flesh,

I'd rather stare
            at plaster than face the
wincing scent of halitosis
   lovesick and ruttish.

From the truant
   ache of congress,
this much I understood:

when
you fake orgasm

you fuck
         hope.

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