Pink Narcissus


The drip drip drip of echoic tiles. The sting of ammonia; the jargon of palimpsest doors, a hole in one, at crutch-height, in which to make your confession of a sin you can’t name. The architecture of desire awaits the future of now before revealing itself; its turrets and corners, its dark secrets.

He can’t be more than seventeen, the boy you once saw here, swaggering his boastful cock at you. The jeans are pushed to a crush at his hips, his hairless arse shining like a slaughterhouse knife.