Jacob Brooks

Rotisserie

Weightless breakfast congealing on the teflon. The porn-limits gorge with dayglow. In the Molson Canadian livingroom we learn to be grafted to the white-light, concept, macadam, and electric tissues that sustain this organ. Second-hand smoke body odor American Apparel brown carpet succulents and custard conjoined in the process of recording. The glass is open, a thirsty gutter. Into the throat of light pour gallons and gallons of data. Push down the five-panel over his face. The networks swell with anal. There’s no quenching these invasive vasculars, only appeasing them with an endless mutual seepage. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum.

 
 
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Data Raptor

Radio makes a vector. So he crow-flies into my linted foyer’s lip. Basketball shorts undulate in clotting darkness, metallic odors billow from stripped feet. I suck the tongue. We wrap together and neb like eels. Pink Lemonade Burnette’s & pure spit miscegenate. Mouth full of paint. As he makes me the sky his ass stinks. It’s bitter. Google will build a new corporate campus near 2300 Traverwood Drive in Ann Arbor, MI. They’re thrilled to continue to grow here. I fall over him from the wind like a tarp, repeatedly, skimming his outer layers. Over and over I fly and fall.

 

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JACOB BROOKS is a writer and office worker based in Michigan. He has collaborated with Maya Chun, Mac Porter, Alayna Baron, and Sean Horner on multimedia renderings of his poems. His chapbook, ARTPORN (2016), is published by Citizen of the World. He tweets @skinandimpulses.

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