chromatographics

gay poems by mb bischoff

#marks

4 poems

photobooth

shoes stick to the floor, we wander past the bar into a dim red-lit lounge. pinball, locked door, you. you’re a seeing machine. pull your curtain closed— shroud us in secrets that end just above our waist.

tap on a train faregate, a beep reminds us that transportation isn’t free, a short trip still costs us. you’re a seeing machine. see what we’re made of. we’re trapped here now, we can’t hide from flash.

all whirring and waiting. don’t know how long ‘til our capture, our release. we kiss from impatience. you’re a seeing machine. our mouths are blurring, hands in hair, bite marks in flesh. we have no time.

falling back into the light. was there music before? we lean against the box, we cannot lose contact. you’re a seeing machine. you take time to develop. wait here: a strip will fall. freeze us in four frames.

Black-and-white four-frame photobooth strip of two people kissing.

poke

door opens— am i the fool? gloves snap, now i’m playing my role unstained steel tray cradles your tools you wash me clean, i cede control

you sketch small leaves in purple ink i play with you, this is our game when it’s all done, what will they think? art, artist, work— all share a name

calmly you ask “ready for stabs?” there’s not a way for me to know is this your temple or your lab? we share one breath, it’s time to go

your sword and your eyes penetrate music and pain blanket my brain sometimes we should disregulate questions pour out, blood from a vein

hours pass as you make passes pricks turn into private pleasure when we are through, our flesh collapses every mark is made forever

stick

winter cherry, lush pressed to the pane : clear swirling glass, vessels for grapes

red print attracts gazes from gays strange artifacts mouths go astray

first contact lasts longer than stains washed away fast — much like our brains

they always say lips that disguise can’t be the way, but never the why

shouldn’t we just paint what we feel even if lips must become the meal

accident(ily)

one fifty-four is not the hour to send texts, no autocorrect

risky confessions clipped affections dimmed i love you’s from neon rooms

could be a typo should i just lol or say her name, reply the same?

an oops can’t erase the thrumming bass as juniper slips from her bruised lips

tripping on her tongue fuck. uhh. drunk. umm. not that not yet

or at least — not like this