Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Creole Confession

Creole Confession

“I wonder what he does
after he swallows me whole.”
—Philip Roth, The Human Stain

he sure was jet-black—
for a white guy I said to
myself in the showers.

he be "passe blanc"—
as the creoles say down in
new orleans that way.

I followed him down—
there after we flunked out
that semester in school.

he was just a bored—
rich kid from the big easy
his aphrodisiacal cock.

he was dangerous—
because he made me do
things impulsively.

like a lover’s excited—
unconcealed, compulsive
connoisseurship for sex.

his blanc negro dick—
then giving him head
and getting him off…

he had this body—
this beautiful creole skin
it was dinge paradise.

it was easy with him—
nothing concealed or
shameful about it.

it wasn’t romantic—
it was something else
jizz-jetting me crazy.

his wide nostrils—
spread-eagled in bed
his tangle of pubes.

the way he moved—
smelled and tasted like
absolute intimacy.

we laughed, slept—
breathed, smelled, sat
around doing nothing.

no remembering—
no pondering this or
that, no second doubts.

when he shuddered—
everything suddenly got
encrypted with magic.

ever been around some—
guy who envelopes you
tightly in sheer nakedness?

the more I found out—
about him, the more he
got mysteriously other?

in that anarchic space—
how much of him did i
get to see or really know?

back to his negro self—
the "passe blanc" above
his waist, then below…

he liked me because—
that’s the thing about him
i wanted to get to know.

he sensed it right away—
what other guyz shied away
from, i wanted it bad.

“how much can he take?—
how much of me does he
want?” he asked himself.

first in the dorm showers—
then in bed as roommates,
then back in the big easy…

his exquisite newness—
the paradoxical implicatons
renouncing everything else.

all i could think about—
was the look on his slack face
distending down to the floor.

his parents were in europe—
we stayed in their vieux carré
apartment, sleazy honeymoon.

chianti, spaghetti, cannoli—
in his favorite restaurant then
count basie “lady be good.”

he was so awfully slithery—
watching him take his clothes
off like a black torch song.

his big black thing—
all 12 inches plain as day…
licorice black as midnight…

the guy i love is tres—
creole colored, his cum sure
aint the white thing, baby.

he has no shame at all—
each gesture ruins me bad,
it’s called voluptuosness.

how did i find you?—
who are you, anyway, kid?
I’ve become "passe blanc"…

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