"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

bone.

Touch

            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.

6/16/1992

San Francisco

(Kennel Club, née VIS, now Independent)