Saturday, November 5, 2011

Poems for The Wilde Boyz



Poems for the Wilde Boyz
___________________________

The Crucifix
Radiance
Orizaba
His Ribs
The Underwear
Thru the Keyhole
Self Portrait as Bette Davis in Contempt
Despite Yolanda
The Vampire’s Lover
_______________________

The Crucifix
—for Alex Dimitrov

he didn’t come easy—
it was more like an awful
excruciating crucifixion

sometimes it would—
get twisted around his
neck and he’d choke

not as much as me—
gagging and trying to
keep communion down

after unzipping him—
letting him nail me to
the ceiling with it

then him playing—
lazarus & me raising
him from the dead

Radiance
—for Alex Dimitrov

even tho his eyes—
were brown at night they’d
ooze deepest lavender

i wondered if he were—
seeing what i was seeing
but he’d squeeze them shut

i had pry them open—
with a crowbar just to see
the flame that turned me on

Orizaba
—for Alex Dimitrov

below deck the kid—
who Hart Crane wanted
rebuffed him & beat him up

once was enough—
the kid took the gringo’s
money begrudgingly

but crane was drunk—
the stop in havana only
made things worse

he ended up broke—
a black eye, no billfold
in trouble as usual

how could be show up—
back in new york this way
even peggy hated him

his eyes pea-green—
color of caribbean sharks
sailor-poet overboard

he used to sing songs—
before he let his lips touch
the mud far below

His Ribs
—for Alex Dimitrov

when it was over—
i let it slide thru me like
snot from a runny nose

he stained the sheets—
kept on trembling until
there wasn’t a drop left

he let go of my head—
fingers wrapped tight in my
hair, a pube in my teeth

The Underwear
—for Alex Dimitrov

at 14 i’d seen him naked—
my cute young stepfather who
my mother had got married to

she couldn’t stand my father—
and he couldn’t stand her so
that’s how i ended up in love

he kept his rubbers in the—
upper left-hand drawer of my
mother’s dressingroom cabinent

they’d get drunk on sat nights—
then make love when they got
home, i pretended to be asleep

i snapped the waistband—
of his dirty shorts and smelled
what a young man smells like

i pressed my face into it—
pretended he was fucking me in
the mouth, tasting his smegma

i sank my teeth into the cotton—
biting deep into the man i wanted bad
the terror & pleasure of cuming dirty

my knees gave in, i went spaz—
all i wanted was what mother got
he knew but wouldn’t let me have it

Thru the Keyhole
—for Alex Dimitrov

watching him thru—
the keyhole i couldn’t help it
but i had to do it anyway

knowing he was getting it—
his exquisitely muscular
tight sneaky flexed ass

my mommy dearest—
getting him off each night
in their crummy bedroom

so that’s how it was—
in our dumpy duplex home
they fucked all the time

that’s the problem—
when you fall in love with
your own hetero stepfather

I was stupid and na├»ve—
thinking maybe I could get
some of that str8t guy stuff

he was so self-centered tho—
so awfully vain and completely
selfish & so was my mother

all she was interested in—
was the same thing i was
ogling at thru the keyhole

he was in love with himself—
she was in love with it even
worse than he was

i was in love with it too—
even finding him jerking
off in the shower sometimes

Self Portrait as Bette Davis
in Contempt

—for Alex Dimitrov

it’s easy for bette—
to be bitter in the movies
she’s my favorite actress.

especially baby jane—
when she serves blanche
dead parakeet under glass

she makes curtains sway—
the red light district scream
jesus christ, what a dump!

she’s got my number—
she knows all about eve and
even more about slutty adam

Despite Yolanda
—for Alex Dimitrov

before he comes—
he always says her name
i simply can’t take it

it drives me crazy—
hearing another person’s
name coming outta him

especially yolanda—
and it takes a long time
for him to say it too

but i want it bad—
his cum at its richest that
first moment it shoots

i need something hot—
and alive to get me going
thru the rest of the day

The Vampire’s Lover

he had an hour without it—
two sharp incisors aching for it
inside his straitjacketed mind

the heart’s black pool—
a balkan curse expiring in the air
waking up nobody

his coffin sliding into—
an invisible crypt in a castle
built for the living dead

manhattan his new home—
so easy moving through the city
most of the people dead anyway

undressing beside the piano—
elegant and unmistakably old
his mouth that never releases

a faint circle of blood—
some teeth marks in my shirt
like he said it wouldn’t hurt

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