Guy

by Christos Polydorou

When they find
us, we
will be sleeping.

Becoming
even more beautiful
with

each bell-bottomed
tear

of sleep.
Our beds, will be
bounties, to behold…

and each object
will be in its
right,

place. My pear, it was a place,
where we lived. One might
even describe the setting

as spectacular, if
one were being excused
for effusiveness,

and we
ought to be. The
sirens,

they never stopped, nor
the lawnmowers, nor the
trains

and the roads of cars,
they circled. They circled.

They circled. They circled. When
they find,

us, we won’t be weeping. A space
beyond fear, even guilt, that’s
you & me:

A speechless
body of muscles and
insatiable sex, posting photographs

of itself on Instagram, rendering
us speechless. Tell
your hot boyfriend from Milan

the beard really works on him,
in fact, that ancient second face

of grave fluidity – the beard –
has found new life in his face.

When they find us,
we will be worshipping his likeness,

the likeness of the guy
not the guy himself.

There will be a drop
of hope which we could

easily turn into
an ocean and drown

the whole world.
Use the guy.

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