Angel pricks her index to the inside of my cheek, checking for wisdom. All my sisters bat their eyes. I lose my cool. Smoking to make conversation. That’s how loving works. Gravedigging in the alley of Lewisham's video store. I’m translating everything. Knuckles to desire. Your hand to her thigh. Twenty love poems and other nonsense. In the bathroom, eleven freaks are reenacting Mayakovsky’s suicide note. Believing maybe this is exactly what they want. A good fuck and a vision. The one hundred miracles of an alarm. Right beside you, the music stops. Angel is jaw open, pinned by her left wing. Make me a man, I tell her. Make me a man. Twenty love poems and no desperation. How the night ends inside you, to the left around her ribcage. Cum on your stomach, hands soaked, tied down. I want to watch you get bored of this. Read your poem in the multipurpose community room, and drink. With all the lights off. Angel shoots herself in the leg. Hopping over to the man in green swim trunks. A Royal Navy x Fendi collaboration. Angel. I know a communist when I see one.

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