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Foul Play with Non-binary Antics

A spherical object—mid-air, is reason enough to come for your head:
another way to harm your gayest memories.
an opponent launches an attack,

& we crowd over the round omen, shelling body by rumpled body.
once impact meets fresh ground, the ball levitates.

whichever fist seizes it first stays dead or worse.
say, I put it nicely: the way skin wades past bullet-shaped hands,
till our loin reddens with demand.

say, the wind frustrates a killer pass,
we ram endlessly into each other till oxygen is spent.
& when the whistle yawns in high pitch,
we break free at impulse.

the ball throats skyward yet again
& gravity repeats a sharp pull at our loins—lawless lots:
Sammy & his neat burden of teenagers holding it down.

these round bunch of never-do-wells,
these ghastly wreck of knee & ankle snowballed into chaos on village soil:
this—our most cherished hazard.

surviving each die minute barely alive & intimate with dust,
I hunger for a rematch.

in truth, I dread injuries
yet, wish the next collision guts me open beyond repair,
leaving me still bound, motionless—as a corpse.

if nothing else, the silence holds ghosts.
& while we’re all a tangled mess of knee, muscle & displaced thighs,
your rehearsed hands meets me wet—

first, as a blessing: a tight-fisted plea between my groin,
close-range, as thighs slice through affection.
each impact dazed with reward.

we outperform nature.
one finger breeds two that breeds a whole bunch of hands, grappling at our innocence.
our tongues caught offside—shooting blank.

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