Proletariat Kinks

If we could burn the world down 
together, would that make us a match 
made in hell?  

And will you only want me when 
things get hot, or is it that you 
can’t stand seeing the world on fire, 
all alone?  

I know the likelihood of these being 
answers on a dating profile are about 
as slim-to-none as us actually 
burning anything down, 

together or apart, but I think, 
as questions go, they’re more important 
than what we want to eat on 
our first date.  

Questions which, should we ask them, 
might make our first date, 
our last.  

I’m not unstable, I swear.  No more 
than any other high-functioning anarchist, 
living in a world where life is measured 
paycheck-to-paycheck, 

and death, in how soon we finish 
grieving, and get back to measuring 
paychecks.  Maybe if Soylent Green 
was billionaires.  

But until that dream is real, maybe 
we could start by striking that match, 
lighting some candles, and talking about 
our proletariat kinks.  

Mine involve a double scoop of 
chocolate ice cream, served at a parade, 
on the first day of May.