Alternative text description for screen readers:
My beloved, you are carol singers
singing carols in the round, and
the carol is Gucci, is this sprawling
nightmare bisexual glamour piece.
You take turns pressing play:
Seat 8B, you know what you
want, fire it up on the runway.
Patrizia writing her number
in red lipstick on Maurizio’s
windshield. Good for you.
It was a name that sounded so sweet.
You (13E) scoff but I saw
how your finger absolutely
leapt at the thumbnail. You
inhale your Quest bar, rapt.
I would give you the world
is something Patrizia,
Lady Gaga, would say, Patrizia,
here eating 1970s Adam Driver
alive in her father’s office,
his giant bug body destroying
that desk. 16C, I too enjoy
[moans] [speaking Italian]
the subtitles.
Some of you started without me,
and if I was wearing mascara
I would make it run down my neck
now, make a scene of us in the street,
I did that for you,
cradle our bulging photo album
as she’s doing there at the end.
Still! I have it all. You show me
Gaga-Patrizia flossy in white,
her world expanding with her,
or her midnight TV psychic
in the kitchen haze, echoing
affirmations, staring straight through.
Here we watch Adam Driver
row a boat, his stupid grin
nestled in pond fog, a fine cloud
Patrizia is becoming. Father son and
insatiable wonder. Dare me to want
anything else. I dare you
to keep your seat-back tray
unstowed, to ask for more pretzels,
to open my in-flight message.
So Patrizia, what exactly are your interests?
My guess: downing a fully-clothed titan
into my bubble bath. Touching every
balloon I see. Rising off the lake like
relentless haunted winks. My interests
are the mist of me spreading.
Planepeople, through you I disperse
myself. I check and recheck that her face
really was the most earnest donut, that his
ski chalet hours were just as messy as us,
that if you press a button above your head
something somewhere chimes. I am having
all of it. Thank you.
Alternative text description for screen readers:
My beloved, you are carol singers
singing carols in the round, and
the carol is Gucci, is this sprawling
nightmare bisexual glamour piece.
You take turns pressing play:
Seat 8B, you know what you
want, fire it up on the runway.
Patrizia writing her number
in red lipstick on Maurizio’s
windshield. Good for you.
It was a name that sounded so sweet.
You (13E) scoff but I saw
how your finger absolutely
leapt at the thumbnail. You
inhale your Quest bar, rapt.
I would give you the world
is something Patrizia,
Lady Gaga, would say, Patrizia,
here eating 1970s Adam Driver
alive in her father’s office,
his giant bug body destroying
that desk. 16C, I too enjoy
[moans] [speaking Italian]
the subtitles.
Some of you started without me,
and if I was wearing mascara
I would make it run down my neck
now, make a scene of us in the street,
I did that for you,
cradle our bulging photo album
as she’s doing there at the end.
Still! I have it all. You show me
Gaga-Patrizia flossy in white,
her world expanding with her,
or her midnight TV psychic
in the kitchen haze, echoing
affirmations, staring straight through.
Here we watch Adam Driver
row a boat, his stupid grin
nestled in pond fog, a fine cloud
Patrizia is becoming. Father son and
insatiable wonder. Dare me to want
anything else. I dare you
to keep your seat-back tray
unstowed, to ask for more pretzels,
to open my in-flight message.
So Patrizia, what exactly are your interests?
My guess: downing a fully-clothed titan
into my bubble bath. Touching every
balloon I see. Rising off the lake like
relentless haunted winks. My interests
are the mist of me spreading.
Planepeople, through you I disperse
myself. I check and recheck that her face
really was the most earnest donut, that his
ski chalet hours were just as messy as us,
that if you press a button above your head
something somewhere chimes. I am having
all of it. Thank you.