Close

But Wasn't It Nice

Alexa Vallejo | Poetry

Imagine a sex castle. Imagine
a piecemeal man. It is science. Like a beam of pure anti-matter.

The doctor takes two virgins,
a shadowplay of rape. Magenta flips the Medusa switch and

everyone is stone. Time
for the floorshow, the tyrant says. Nineteen years old, I

watch from the booth with shame and desire. Wet feathers hang limp, mouths grace chests,

lips spell sin with every kiss. People throw shit at the screen, lob obscenities and laugh. You

can just be a girl if you want.
Is that what you want? Indignant and dry, Riff Raff screams: They

didn’t like me. They never liked me. Spurned from the orgy, the prude aims his ray gun and shoots.