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Comes the golden Light of the Dogday afternoon... |
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waiting for the sacred Hour when he comes to my Room. |
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He brings me Flowers beautiful, he's been doing that for Years, |
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and photographic Memories, Trophies of his... Victories... |
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... Vouchers of Conquests, boldly flagged, streaming high... on Mass of |
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Battle-ships, |
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sailing on the troubled Seas, Waters of dull Aquaintances, |
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spread out on the Blackness here of this shroud-like tablecloth crocheted...- |
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glossy Evidance of Lust, of all the handsome Men he had. |
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Like an Assassin's Game of Cards, |
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unshuffled Oracle of Love, |
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of one Nightstands, half hearted Loss, |
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stolen Kisses, past Jerk-offs. |
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Liassons that went nowhere, |
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fleeting Moments, without Hope or Care, |
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all laid out now before me here |
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between Dessert Plates & cups of Tea. |
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I feel for him |
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as I feel for no other Man, |
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but Sadness is the only Thing |
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that he and I will ever share... |
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Each Polaroid, it bears a young, |
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but slightly out-of-focus Face, |
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white Teeth exposed in Flashlight-smiles, |
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well-defined Bodies, strong & tanned... |
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Names & Numbers, Cyphers traced |
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like Promises upon each Frame, |
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according to the features shown; |
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sadly, all poses look the same. |
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I hardly speak, I rarely do, |
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my role is just to sit & listen |
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to the Tales he unfolds, offers to me, |
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his palest "Hunt of Agony"... |
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...the sexless priest, |
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the joyless Clown, |
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who never judges, only frowns, |
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Sipping tea & offering Chocolate Cake, |
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for it does concole the Heart that lies in Ache. |
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The fading portraits on my walls, |
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dead people I have never met, |
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unlike his photos, Trophies all, |
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decount to Lovers, Men he had... |
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I feel for him |
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as I feel for no other Man, |
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but Sadness is the only Thing |
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that he and I will ever share... |
