For Gavin
Yes, I am going to the priest.
There’s no point in concealing it.
I’ve lost two pounds. Nothing
Feels at home inside my mouth.
I cannot eat. Strange prodigies
Surround me. Look, just yesterday,
The clerical collar of a cock—
A very snug white foreskin
Belonging to a beautiful Pole—
Evaporated before my eyes—
In a puff of satanic smoke—
When I opened the steamroom door.
If this were not bad enough—
I suffered an erection when
I was assaulted in Grand Central
By cinnamon and baked apples—
So strong a scent the station
Took on Edenic overtones.
Tonight, I donned a sweaty black
Pair of running shorts and ran
To my bodega for beer—into
A pair of trannies. They squeezed
My testicles so hard with their eyes
My balls began to bleed like stones.
Are these good signs or bad? Each day
I get a billet doux—a poem.
I am in love, I think. But will
The poems cease if my guts
Run out of fresh entrails for you
To read, review, and analyze?
No comments:
Post a Comment