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Myself in Opposition to You


by P.R. Mercado


The Sunday sunset slowly simmers the sea. 

I dreamt last night 
that as I pissed, with a handsome guest, 
my face burst into flame. 

I awoke choking.

My bed smelled of sweat, semen. 

O, I watch pornography while listening to Mahler!
and you? Vulgar rag-wearing oaf. 

Masturbation to moans and screams and wet slapping sounds. 

I vomit at the thought—

and to the sound of my choking, 
perhaps some Verdi, or Handel, such that I, fountain
of chewed up meat and rice, do so in slow motion, 

as a countertenor sings: 
Ombra mai fu...
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