That’s not a typo,
it’s a lamp in the femboy dungeon in my basement, or whatever young men call it these days,
and it’s gonna go slam its head
in the oven door seven times because it just learned
you could totally mate
like two slugs.
(Don’t look that up.)

It’s multiple twinks
standing on top of each other in a trenchcoat in Shanghai, texting a waterfowl
before it gets put on the table with the head still on,
and they’re gossiping about
a straight cow fucker,
a real heterosexual,
the first one they’ve ever seen.

It’s the only man
worth selling your kidneys for: the one who will take them out with his own two hands. Erotically eating people
is like its new favorite thing
(not to do, just to clarify),
and it’s not allowed to use the wifi until it’s done being feral.

It’s the best thing that’s happened since Dr. Seuss wrote I sleep you sleep,
red sleep blue sleep— but in reality, Tricumvirate
is never googling things
when you could text your friends and wait an extra ten minutes for an answer instead.