I’ve recently become fixated on porn star James Deen: fantasy of hetero-masculinity with a vowel changed for the internet era. I started this poem out of a desire to capture the way Deen complicates libidinal identity politics and the male gaze. I soon found the poem generating not performative intimacy, but something closer to intimate performance.
Chandelier in the woods, myopic cake and the whole chupacabra: the sort of dinner party to massacre. The question’s who funnels the girl on her pyre, will I watch. It could take sixty years to download good witchcraft. Whistle me away from Red Dog, his cherried maw
his black fur. All these boys want just one thing, for someone to walk them home in the morning, left jackboot to the face. I ask whether the cold-blooded mammal wins her scruff, is that sexy, is that even an inquiry. By decree
marbled kingdom where you pass dismembered fog, remember you’re still sad, my twilight
my ghost of a Western. Cuddled up the huddled mistress. Uttered words like “invisible milk” or “true violence.” Also “fuck yourself.” Also “researchers develop new standards for molecular equidistance.” In the end you belong to someone greater. You’ll never guess who.
Dylan Furcall studies English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University, where he is an editor of the campus literary magazine, Quarto. He is also an intern for the poetry journal Maggy, and his poems have previously appeared in Ragazine.