The Marbled Swarm

The Marbled Smarm
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The Marbled Smarm
Worn-Out Ex-Boy
Publishing Porn
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The Marbled Smarm

“the boner the novel’s
premise seemed to
offer wasn’t delivered”
—Dennis Cooper
Paris Review Interview

His ass—
makes me nervous
till I explore it

Spread-eagled in bed—
but now I want
to forget it

JFK Jr. goodlooks—
but he won’t be playing
Big Daddy in movies tho

I slip him a pill—
I unravel his male talent
impeccable at first

Then limp & weepy—
a knife slices his
history of power

Overrated teen idol—
spoiled fucking brat
screamy saint-like

Dismembered friends—
try to warn him but
he ends up crippled

He keeps posing—
like I was some fan
in love with his cuteness

But I wasn’t—
love isn’t the answer
sayz Marquis de Sade

Snotty runny nose—
loose assed, takes
my fist for $1000

I pay him ‘cause—
I’m loaded, arm
to elbow up his ass

Pleading, zoned-out—
urinating all over
himself, tres retardo

“Hey, thanks” he sayz—
a whole fucking lot” as if it
were a joke, but it wasn’t

Worn-Out Ex-Boy

“There is a
worn-out
ex-boy”
—Dennis Cooper
“Darkens,” The
Dream Police

I flew back to Paris—
saw Miss Cooper leaning
against the Eiffel Tower

She studied me with—
cold eyes and downcast smile,
her face ruined by hustlers

We talked about Paris—
what's Paris got to do
with anything? she said.

Miss Cooper in Paris—
cruising butchy chicken as usual
Marquis De Sade Moderne, my dear

Publishing Porn

“…pasty white straight boys
and the hot women who
love them. That’s publishing.”
—Ira Silverberg, Lambda Literary

A drunken night in my house—
with a boy, San Francisco: I lay
awake. Darkness: nausea.

Gusts of revulsion—
a kind of rancid staleness
stale gusts of dreariness.

Waves of nausea—
fumes of nausea
flavorless, sickening gusts.

Stagnant dreariness—
whiffs of sickliness
waves of nauseous disgust.