Goons Romance
Jason Teal

Spring 2021
My goons that said yes, I will rust in all possibilities of rain or

    Goons that exclaimed ouch when my posh claws lash them
in their ignorant sleep.

    Goons that admitted no freakish traditions and goons that
desired no hiked wages.

    Goons that siphoned fear from the shop owners brandishing
shotguns instead of sweeping.

    My goons that conveyed all manner of roughness and
adopted babble in arguments.

My goons tasted chemicals for my batches, gingerly sipping the
unfaithful mixes.

    I didn’t always overlook quiet fixtures of the group. But the
goons stepped bleary and meekfooted under supervision. I wasn’t
inclined to sponsor tastes or feelings in the kitchen.
    They wore aprons, torn bags on their broken work boots. I
pushed them like game pieces around the stations. Tracking mud in
the kitchen, the eager goons proved young and disobedient

    The first time I served poison to my family, I was awarded
this house. And I hoarded my coinage.

    The goons risked vomit, history, life. Regardless of debts

    Why also I trusted temporary men to whisper affirmations,
sweet nothings in their death throes, I don’t know. The concoctions

    I sometimes belabored instruction with unscary punctation,
waited for their encroaching confusion to spark itself; bravery
combusted in certain moments but I likened this to surrender.

    I despised securities.
    But I would lust for consistency if I were a goon!
    I was such a god.
    The desperate walls started blinking out in goon-drips. I
gasped with satisfaction. I brushed my lips across their essences
moving out.

    After the meal: stray minerals of goon bodies accumulated
in piles.

    I toed the illuminations of powder with nerveless glee.

My goons that yelped yes, there are experts in many fields but here
is what I choose to believe.

    Goons that chucked rocks at passing cars, taunting in plain
view. Menacing in daylight with the right shoes.

    If only they actually listened.

My goons thought I was afraid of singing. One evening their
chorus held practice in my wing.

    An omnitudal scratching at the base of my neck when the
men joined.

    They were not like us.
    I barricaded myself.
    Counting time until the singers would stop singing.
    “Good god!” I said.
    I was perturbed by their discourteous harmony.
    As a ruler I cowered in the worthless space.
    They went for hours with rangy notes—in front of the
room a goon-choir somehow rallied. Significant disasters drunk on
the right choice. Smooth fitted shirts plugged the peephole.

    One way out but their pitched fever soothed my tyranny.
    And I saw their rounded silhouettes booming with
preternatural joy.

    And personal. Oddly enough.
    Though I couldn’t protect my ears for long.
    My slicked-back hair raised from sleeping to a fixed point.
    I was the dog dying for treats between newspaper swats.
    The study was a saccharine room void of books I had
locked myself in.

Monday Nov 5 2018