The boys ditch secret services,
speed off : Vlady, Big D,
&, for kicks, Jong-un, to muscle
into a butt-to-butt lezzie bar,
slumming around Chelsea hip-grunge,
their no-questions-asked hotel suite
a block away for fuckin’-lucky nights.
Goth dykes cluster on spin stools
pushed together like all those boobs
in studded leather corsets.
These babes are pierced.
Stoly martinis all around.
Coke lines, ladies,
with power on the side?
Hands slide up thighs, grab.
One a piece, times three.
My one is so hard for you, comrade whore.
The Imperial Saber demands decadent Western slut.
Little Donny’s hugely great for you, cunt-face.
Chelsea Hotel housekeeper Consuela Rivera
found them at seven the next morning.
Dios mio! Three flabby naked men,
hands and legs cuffed to the bed frame,
a tidy round black hole
like a beauty mark centered
in each beast’s braincase.
No jizz, just some blood blots.
Si! Three flaccid male bodies
in their own stinking shit and piss,
and, to top it off, a first-ever, primero:
a line of three tiny pink Pussyhats
where cocks used to be.
Hasta nunca, señors.
And the sirens began to blare.
Karla Linn Merrifield has 15 books to her credit. Following her 2019 Athabaskan Fractal: Poems of the Far North from Cirque Press, is her newest poetry collection is My Body the Guitar, inspired by famous guitarists and their guitars, and published in January 2022 by Before Your Quiet Eyes Publications Holograph Series. Web site: https://www.karlalinnmerrifield.org/; blog at https://karlalinnmerrifeld.wordpress.com/.