Monday, September 10, 2012

"Don’t you dare quench my insatiable boredom"


Don’t you dare quench my insatiable boredom
in yr breathtaking clothes, that mask you wear
on the back of yr head—bang
that tambourine, Dick! Evolution
makes you taller. Tempting terrain
of pissed-on boots, aquiline noses
and the return of knickers,
boxers, and big-bra biddies
moving off towards the powder
keg in the backroom where the tap is
always dripping.

Mustache man falters with the cigarette
bit, bumble nose boy weaves
,not looking, past his mascara
lips lubing the slick beer stem,
spittle warming the cool glass knob.
Face powder becomes your holy-
cost, hologram, hot-toddy thump
of the mechanical bass on the lower breast

            and go, porno sonorous gaydar
has released all of our mysteries to the wheel
but for the odor. Rawer meat
and standing water. Heat comes down
a fool to her weight, pats herself off
to it. Aglow, I spy Ms. dreamy beneath the telephone
light, before the piss-pots. Having
been groomed by the doorman, shy abdicates
my face to the wall: flower pot
caught in the hoar-frost. Hep hep me
realign ‘er, get her offa that harp, ‘at ship
of our ingenuity sailing to some higher service
out of a blinding night as white as this
to that great, golden
fuck up in the sky.

San Francisco
(Kennel Club, née VIS, now Independent)

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