Folsom Love Machine

Folsom in Berlin, sweat and rubber in the air,
piss-soaked alleyways steaming in the late September heat.
A wall of flesh, leather, and grease,
straps pulled tight, muscles flexing,
the scent of cigars, poppers, and testosterone thick enough to
choke on.

And then—him.

A SWAT spectre outside Prinzknecht in matte black,
combat boots swallowing his calves,
thigh holsters strapped with cruel efficiency.
Gasmask reflecting the neon street in its faceless sheen,
chest plates rising and falling like a machine learning to
breathe.
A fantasy wrapped in riot gear,
authority kink sharpened to a blade.

MY fantasy. I want it. need it.
I need to be it.

The next night, I step into the crowd,
leather, neoprene and kevlar stitched into perversion.
Fully armoured, fully obscene,
a bedroom warlord ready to invade.

Then—the sirens.

Not the teasing wail of some pig-strapped pup,
but the real ones, the gut-twisting ones.
Shadows rolling over the concrete,
the streetlights flickering under the crush of something huge.
And there—Tesla tanks grinding forward,
X logos glowing cold and white,
Armoured, self-drive, efficient in murder.
The new Reich is algorithmic.

Drones buzzing, scanning, locking on.
Somewhere, a voice crackles through a speaker,
a voice that was meant to command legions,
a voice that doesn’t care about kink nights or dungeon doors—
only war.

A uniformed silhouette steps forward,
and for a second, I think they’re part of the scene—
until I see their eyes.
Not the reckless hunger of a sub waiting to drop,
not the cold control of a Dom testing the leash,
but something emptier, something efficient, readiness.

They look at me, at my gear,
pushes a baton into my hands.
And nods.

I check my reflection in a storefront window,
the city burning behind me.
I thought I was dressed for a night of depravity.

Turns out, I was dressed for the draft.

The Kit Kat Club Frontline

Berlin, city of freedom, of sin, of liberty,
Now, again, a city of war.

I feel the baton in my hands, phallic power,
through my gloves—tactical leather,
stitched for grip, for restraint,
for the hold and the break.

Twitter, sorry, X-branded death squads, algorithmic genocide.
Khaki-clad influencers spewing slogans from livestreamed
trenches.

This isn’t a fight for oil, minerals,
not some technocrat’s bloodsport,
not another game of borders, of flags.
This is a fight for the right to exist—
for drag queens and dykes,
for leather and lace,
for the queer, the weird,
for love in every form they are trying to erase.

They come in blue suits, khaki and cruelty,
their boots polished with the sweat of fear,
their fists wrapped in God and their Great Nation,
their mouths spitting hate like its holy,
with silent prayers to their billionaire Gods.

We meet them in rubber and chains,
in harnesses and holsters,
gimp suits and pig masks,
in heels that crack against the pavement
as we run towards the fight.

And if they think we will kneel,
if they think we will break,
they’ve never been to a dark room in Berlin.
They’ve never seen a man on his knees,
whispering, is that all you’ve got?

The sky burns with a rainbow of lasers,
the air thick with the smell of cigarettes and sweat.
Somewhere, a speaker still blares
the last beats of a techno set,
the bassline of a revolution.

I tighten my gloves,
adjust my visor,
and step forward
ready to grind my boots into the ashes of fascism.