Christian Butterfield
Pornography is a theatre of types, never of individuals*
& i am no stranger to snuff films: shaky cam & cock-kaleidoscope,
glitter-dipped daggers & the landline clicks:
what’s your favorite scary mov— i go quiet
on set: enter
two boys cosplaying as men cosplaying as boys.
we dirty the frame until we’re filthy. try car-
play: thrust-theatre,
prop-condoms & power differentials, ketchup
for blood. you’ll play ghostface, vocoder & virgin-fetish.
i’ll play perfect victim.
call cut. try knifeplay. i method-act
as my corpse & the academy awards me best supporting actor
to my gunshot wounds, the statuette’s
stomach chipped in your honor.
in the silent movie, the orgasm is only the scream
& i am no stranger to snuff films: i google
my murderer & find your IMDB page
linked to my IMDB page— i’m the nameless extra
in your dashcam footage & like any dashing
gentleman, you terrified me,
whispered: what’s your favorite scary movie?
& it’s that one where you block
my number, where the end-
credits roll before the slasher even arrives.
& don’t forget. i auditioned for this.
i begged & balladeered for this, swallowed sword
& semen, pre-screened for phone-sex shrieker, landed the role of
road & road-killer, r-rated ratings-bomber.
& i am no stranger to snuff films,
but i am only the stranger, the spam caller, the starlight spilled
like semen from the statuette’s stomach.
i’m the space reserved for your sequel & yes my love,
i’m ready to shoot: