M. Liberto Gorgoni

Splendors Beyond the Grass

I used to crave twilights on your tits, waiting for any superhero in a condom. You were the naughty tongue of full-moons back then, spreading love into my universe, perched on a desert of thighs. But I don’t visit the park as frequently as I used to anymore. I’ve found other ways to satisfy my wet-dreams with other men after sunset, away from the nine-to-five in Gotham City.


But it’s funny how the scents beyond the grassy knoll haunts me every day: Drakkar Noir, Rabanne, Obsession, Dior. In fact, I carry samples of them in my car, and use them to supplement my moods. The cheap and the pricey. The usual enhancements for anonymous play. But my games will always be on trial in the court of my conscience.


Perhaps I fell in love with the solitude of a forest in childhood, after running away from slammed doors at home. Or perhaps I became a dreamer among the owls back there, a stargazer, an astronomer of sorts, connecting points in the night-sky, to displace my body from the burden of thirst, hunger, and other deliriums I would play with in a series of foster homes.

M. Liberto Gorgoni punctuates the sun with questionable lucidities behind the Hollywood sign. His work has appeared in Eunoia Review.
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