DON SPINELLI BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

His white sox. His post-soccer,
post-baseball attire. He removes his shorts.
Don is the captain of the football team
and I am the same nerd I ever was.

I start at his upturned toe,
lifted to make it easier to take in my mouth.
I am squeezed to the floor. His spit.
I am told I am worth shit. I pay extra for this.

Sometimes we never go further
if that is his wish.
I perform to his insults and fists. I am trained.
We meet in derelict factories.

His gay for pay eyes. His girlfriend at home. 
She counts my dollar. His dick.
His will not love me so I will not love him.

IKE COLE BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Ike Cole, 38 years old
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, $25

On aisle 3
you can buy milk
and you can get butter
and cream and cheese
and yoghurt

On aisle 9
you can buy Frosted Wheats
and you can get Corn Flakes
and Nutrigrain bars
and Coco Pops and Lucky Charms

On aisle 2
you can buy plums
and you can get cabbage
and spinach and thyme
and habanero peppers

On aisle 15
you can buy frozen peas
and you can get fish fingers
and potato waffles and swede
and oven fries

On aisle 7
you can buy vodka
and you can get Bacardi
and tequila
and Napoleon brandy and bourbon

On aisle 4
you can buy kitchen towel
and you can get toilet roll
and bin liners
and make-up and sterident

A moment where you forget
what you were doing with your life
and you've left your wallet in the car
and you are holding bread and beers
and you are meeting Ike at 6

On aisle 10
you can buy peanuts
and you can get pretzels
and crisps and Mini Cheddars
and Pringles

On aisle 6
you can buy lemonade
and you can get Coca-Cola
and Pepsi cola
and cherryade and bottled water

MAJOR TOM BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Major Tom, 20 years old
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS, $20

He'd scratch at the track marks
on his ankles and arms.
He never looked at anything anywhere
for more than a second
and made me nervous.

I think I loved him like a movie star,
like anybody you'd see in a gossip column.
He kinda reminded me
of the corpse of River Phoenix,
as if he'd been laid out for the tourists.

I tried to see him less and less
and each time he shrank.
Last time he was bone
and when I stroked his skin
I swear it came off in my hand.

He only wanted to see himself in a magazine.
He thought he'd be astronaut by now.

MR FARAGE AND THE TIDE

Mr. Farage looked at the coast and bawled,
through a BBC megaphone
sponsored by Gazprom, at the sea.

All this water, coming over here,
taking British shingle from British beaches!

Kelp coming up through the stone.
One high tide.
Mr. Farage plays Cnut
in his highchair, throwing all his rattles
at the oncoming flood 'til it turns
and hangs him dry.

A conference of molluscs applauds.
Crabs lick their claws and descend.

ANDRE SMITH BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Andre Smith, 28 years old
BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA, $30

Dusk. The coin falls drip.
A plastic palm frond shivers in the breeze
of an opening door that closes
on a scuff of dust.

Outside on the parking lot, Andre,
a black youth, muscle gilded bronze
in sunset, waits
for somebody to get lucky.

The drawers glide out and in.
Silver stacks and slips.
It's a well oiled machine.
In a motel, lubricant prepares the skin.