I would have Clark Kent kiss Bruce
with tongue, undressed in the fortress of solitude
save for leather cowl and a single gag.
He traces a line from pectoral
down towards batarang in the soft light
of fan fiction, smut,
The Dark Knight translated into Polari,
every gratification an object of pleasure,
wrestled from misogynists and frat-boys,
sweet and clear water poured over Wolverine’s
hairy stomach, Triple H goes down on Shaun
and Chyna in a tank. Ribald and ecstasy,
lips clutched on nipple, hands through velvet clasped,
luxury and sex, all violent white men made
quivering flesh and gasping breath.