Black Mercedes
Somewhere in Monti
I was lost like Monica Vitti.
Smiled so the Italians loved me.
Wore my crucifix under my linen.
God was very far away.
1.2 miles exactly.
I unbuttoned my shirt
and walked through the piazzas.
Licked the sweat off my lip.
Licked my fingers
after eating a pastry.
God was in a black Mercedes.
In an Adidas tracksuit.
That’s all he told me.
Asked if I was boyish
so I sent him a photo.
Down Via Cavour
I looked at every black car
and tugged at my dick.
The boys glistened.
I took a piss by someone’s Vespa.
I want to find you
I typed out in Google translate.
Voglio trovarti. Then nothing.
God went silent.
My shirt was drenched.
The city was burning.
Someone’s father smoked
a cigarette and read the newspaper.
Baby. Won’t you tell me the news.
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Just realize, a day late, but the existence of Alex Dmitriov is definitely one of the things I am thankful for
Thanksgiving may be pagan, but AD is holy.