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.

MR. FARAGE APPLIES THE GREASE

probably you might say that
it was possibly racist perhaps
you may infer homophobia in any 

major party there are rotten 
apples threatening
to spoil the upset cart but look

no-one holds a clean slate
and the donations were received 
in good faith by the treasurer potentially

you could dig up dirt but the fact
remains that possibly probably
you could infer or say that maybe

ERIC HOLT BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Eric Holt, 19 years old
SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO, $25

I'd call Eric on Fridays, some time
after midnight when the news
and a bottle of Jack grew stale
bedfellows.

I first picked him out on the Boulevard.
Drove him the cool night road
out of town in the convertible
with the roof down.

I think of Eric. The smell of his hair.
The way he sipped his water. His cock.
I feel shame, but never stopped
him coming.

THE EXERCISE POEM

For IC

Imagine a place from your childhood;
write down three things you can see,
three things you can smell,
three things you can hear.

Imagine a pair of hands;
what are they touching?
Write down three things they taste of.

Imagine you are an object from your mother's childhood.
Imagine you are a suitcase.
Write down three things you feel right now.
Write down three things you will feel later.

Go back and delete any word that rhymes.
Go back and delete any word containing an f.

Now interview everything you've just written.
Render the responses phonetically.
Do not stop writing until I say

MICHAEL GOMEZ BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Michael Gomez, 34 years old
CHICAGO ILLINOIS, £30

Hello Michael, it's me. Is that you?

Could you come over tonight,

I'm feeling pretty scared?

No, don't turn on the light.

Don't turn on the light.

Turn it off.

What is it you're smoking these days?

Would you like to bum

one of mine? Don't turn on the light.

A bust heater stuck on high.

White cotton. Sweat in his elbows.

Please Michael, don't turn on the light.