The Pig is Roasted and Nixon Died in 1994.

“Aristotle was a homo.”-Richard Nixon


I smelled leather on his voice and searched his dialogue for cowhide uncensored.
I rolled my eyes until the motion petted the dark part of my skull.
Believed his silence to be a joke.
I licked the air to punctuate separations of muted inhales.
He squealed like a hog that reached orgasm.

We fell asleep to the smell of bacon frying
And the sound of gunshots echoing throughout the Narrows.

The morning after I awakened to a note on my pillow.
I read it with loud eyes.

Sometimes I’ll read it when I am feeling nostalgic about leather.

Like the moment I was arrested
And couldn’t help but stare at the tanned flesh
Of a proper authority,
Wondering if his skin would taste better fried.

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