My Last Wilde Boy Salon

My Last Wilde Boy Salon

“Brad would

rather be dead”

—Richard Howard

“My Last Hustler”

trappings 

_________________

There they all are—

lounging and lying naked

or rather lying in wait for

whatever I’m going to read

them, some on coke or pills, 

others with eyes without flashes 

of lust or blushing, shameless desire,

only a boredom, a tender tribute

to neither Wilde nor eroticism

These are serious customers—

I say to myself perusing the mob,

suspicion creasing their faces,

obviously once all those Botux lips

were naturally puffy with boyfriend

wonder and compliant fleshy joys,

but now far beyond blowjobs,

these young Wildean poets already

have the look of Sebastian Melmoth 

I’d blow them sympathetic kisses—

but what does a old queen like me

have to offer these young boyish 

poets that already seem more jaded

than me, their modern day bateau ivre

journeys much more arduous than mine,

this salon reception room standing room

only crowd I’m reading to & discussing

Dorian Gray if only she were here