IM: Oops, Do You Miss Me?

Butt dial
old paramour

reluctant, dry
reply

but still,
a reply.

The usual:
it’s been so
                         Long?
                         Yes. You really only pocket dialed me?
                         Yes. I really only did.

Her pussy?
survives in the cockbrain

after years: a hound’s
scent-memory of the feline:                         meow meow.
this is the canine:                         woof.

Don’t bark
up the wrong tree, friend texted:                         don’t fuck
                         a daisy,

                         don’t fuck
                         a Maisie,

                         and never,
                         never fuck
                         a crazy...
But,
what is crazy like
after the old text goodbye?

red wine?
that rewards time,

corked in the cellar,
better and better
shelved,
objectified,

a bourgeois plaything,
ex-private-university,

post-structural, anarchist, french,
feminist

                         fuck?

her zeal
her warring gender spiel

lost in her cavernous
rumblings and cravings,

her Grendel’s Mother’s
instincts

that tempt this valiant,
Beowulf Johnson,

notching for glory...
or,

like cheese? green variety
of mold,

promising easy
yeast infection,

postcoital shame, or
claustrophobia cuddles?
                         So,
                         Netflix and Chill?
                         Bye.
Oh.