The Op-Ed Slam

Fantasia by Tim Shea

This is the fantasia
played through red clarinets
inflaming each liquid breast
and stomach, reaching
up to every floor
in this high rise
stone hotel
They said it like:
come suck on my suck on my suck on my
suck all my suck all my
glands till they’re shriveled
hands till they’re wrinkled
head
and feet and tattooed shoulders
till they taste like your filed teeth
like wilting sour dandelions
imagine how pretty
this body can look
when women burn their shirts
to make that bed cook
when priests burn
their bushes to make their souls cook
and read up on younger boys
in the back of the book
Fantasia played through wide curled lips
prime to pucker, prime to gloss
prime to drink
Drawing circles upon circles
on the next flexed six pack
that tightens like a cascade
“you are what my mother wouldn’t speak of,
you are in my generation
the generation I grew up in,
let me paint you a bulls eye
and drink you into my oblivion
you better shut your mouth and embrace
this helpless
Fantasia.”

Next page: My still head by Tim Shea