Phluorescent Phallacy

We were so bored with each other
that we had started to doodle
in the margins of our relationship.

Admonished by love or masochism
we studied taboo, a shared interest
in the hope that it would lead to
shared shame, a public defeat
which was more titillating
than the empty embarrassment
of infidelity. Even our kinks
were at first more criminally boring
than shocking: sex in public,
at a playground, with a group of three
or more, with various groceries,
gardening tools and mod collectibles,
with ordained members of religious sects
dressed in habits or in drag.

It was as if we had culled ideas
from an aging pornstar’s boudoir:
we were lucky to maintain interest
let alone arousal for more than an hour.

In the end we realized our only hope
would be the liberal use of acting
and costumes, converting the grey
of bonerkilling reality into
an eternally furry fluorescent Wonderland.

But as we play pretend
acting like prostitutes in the grocery store
hapless foreigners at the airport
nuns at the Carnival

I wonder if it’s any different than cheating
if you must pretend I am
Marilyn Monroe
Mother Theresa
Bill Clinton
or your mother
to get it up.