Pretty

I took my hood off to smoke.
They pass it back and forth, avoiding the cover,
lines of enterers, ropes of cum.
You came in my eye when I asked you to cum in my mouth and I was so mad, but guess I can’t complain.
What if I was born into water?
I was born into a magazine that doesn’t know my name.

Your child karate-chopped the steak.
Keep eating, faggot. We will not say goodbye until you’ve been tongued.
Come back and kiss me, faggot,
on my spit slit of animatronic pulse.
Walk through those bears,
those big helpful Maries, those horrible creatures who
the bartenders are not
nice enough to kill

They are too kind,
thumping and nodding behind cock.
You’re just a subscription service. They eat people who cry. They kill people who do not plan.
Welcome to my unfortunate smell.

Beer battered and slathered in sauce

Your patch of onion grass,
who knows if it tastes better or worse
than the three-thousand-year-old honey sitting in tombs that the scientists say is
perfectly edible.
I’ll never taste either because
it’s too expensive to steal
from kings.

I like boys who have colors around them,
shrines of plastic puppy figures,
gummy stars and shells on their neck stubble,
tiny paper windmills on their ears.
It’s nice to know that I’m a little rainbow bauble
but
I still wanna get hit by a bus.

I’ll just hang around your thumb,
or string your shoelace through my empty part
and dangle around down there,

I don’t wanna be anybody’s novel sober evening,
so please, by all means, get blackout,
and I wanna bomb AA,
so let me taste it on your mouth too.

Montana Thomas is a poet based in New York City. His work can be found in publications such as Forever Magazine, Dreamboy Book Club, Maudlin House, Moral Crema, Pan-Pan Press and Everybody Press Review, among others.