“Coffee and toffee for the dominatrix, Jojo, quick!” To bully
Back or not to be, bully that they are, is the answer by itself,
The cycle that rolls downhill beyond the burros from Chile
(Not here), behind the bisons from Depression-era America
(Past now, not so welcome to our bullish generation, ‘bye).
Believe them when they tell you. Burritos, bad when you’re
Full, but fine when the bandurria begins its hungry trills for
A ballad my abused maid of a mate sings in Bisaya, sounding
Something like business in theatrical gaps, him screaming,
“Yaya!”—broad breath in the orgasmic moment, bouillabaisse
For her hair’s tendrils, diaphanous for creaturely subjection
That matters most when our masters don’t bell a ring-like tone
To deafened ears assigned to something a little farther. Wham,
Bang, your bed is red! We are green with envy! The color of
Their green-plantation bullcrud, . . . of soon-to-be-blue blood!
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