of toronto

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - MOR­GAN CHRISTIE

—af­ter Jayne Cortez

i am the city of toronto see my nos­tri­cles hang my lick­able con­crete and my

blue balls and birds mouth open and swal­low­ing white war, there’s a few of those, painted in lit­tles and towns

dipped in beats, o, beats

no, they don’t all know drake

i am the city of toronto and shit pi­geon and gull i taste salt and sperm at my docks

and fried cane in juice with cow gravy slushed next to dried fish bones my cult of di­nosaur en­thu­si­asts my slew of halfways, do you re­mem­ber my squeegee nip­ples? no­body sees the blood in my tears

just the snow set­ting on top af­ter they slip

and the bor­oughs, yes, i have them too

i am the city of toronto green maples and brick piss that reeks of gan­jaaaa­choo

cold sores and bil­lowy smog out there where neon cal­luses scare gloves my bright night shows laced in naked palms and empty tongues in bus stop beds and bench blan­kets

i chew on ev­ery­one i am the city of toronto gnaw on flesh and suck the bone

it’s why they’re all so damn mis­er­able and thick like that same grav­i­less cow’s hide they sweep my stiffs away at night, shhh, that shit doesn’t go on in canada, eh

kiss my sewer gully cheeks my red and white ass taste my mol­son rab­bis my car streets and greasy tracks and the duck heads and pig eyes and goat stom­ach stuck in my teeth back al­ley cot­ton balls stuffed in ears hair saws and kinked grins same old crooked butt five 0

no, we don’t talk about them tight knees and joints lu­bri­cated in ketchup chips and toonie blow jobs spanked as­phalt and dirty waged claws rip me a new one or two there’s too many of them chok­ing on spoiled tim­bits

can’t a city breathe

i am the city of toronto my un­der­cooked brain of stew my foot stuck in throat ten­ants come snort ice with me

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