OK, so this one's kind of about being ho.
But where did it go?
I did write it at one point.
Yeah, OK, it's called "Application."
Do you all use cruising apps, or know about them?
Oh, the kids don't call them cruising apps anymore
because they don't know what cruising is.
So this is just called "Application."
So it's like a hookup app.
Let me just make sure I'm not going well over my time.
Oh great, I'm killing it.
We're halfway home, y'all.
OK, so this call "Application."
"For a man who loves the torso, this must be heaven.
Holy the photographs, mad beheadings,
lo, the framed anus, lo, the catfish.
Lo the man posing with the cat on his chest.
Holy the shadow beard, holy the arms stretched and tendered
above his back, holy the Trojan, the right now, the John 23.
Oh the pictures we take of this simple sex,
lit filtered cigarette.
Oh exile is a written language and its digital equivalent
is drooling.
Drive west a mile to be choked by a stranger.
Walk a block south to kneel on black and white linoleum.
North is money and a mouth to empty inside.
Who better but all who wanted to host the host on their tongue?
Glory, the new houses I've become
a part of with a simple smear of semen below the couch.
Glory, the family portrait smiling as the husband
drowns behind me.
Glory, the hole that opens and moves as I move.
Sup?
Looking?
You close?
You swallow?
You travel?
You host?
Of course, the Greek root of icon is a God.
The plate of light I reached my hand through
and feel it pulse around my arm, a message from John 23,
313 feet away.
Let me ruin your mouth.
And it's done.
A man makes love to his machine then becomes one."
[APPLAUSE]