Beautiful Bottom, Beautiful Shame
The way he writhed
Beneath the other man
Argued his loneliness,
But he wasn’t just a
blank measure
Waiting to sound;
However much an O
His mouth made,
He wasn’t just an O—
Thrusting back, up,
Against what is almost
Like a finger, though
It isn’t, always needing
To be touched
Like a finger, to be
held:
—I’m lonely.
My waist cinched
Inward like some vintage
Japanese fan, the clever
Blade of my back,
Working inch-by-inch
Toward a pleasure
Half mine, the way fire
Pleases,
Wax pleases . . .
What does possession mean?
No, really. Tell me.
That at this moment
Someone beside myself
can feel
How many times
I shudder?
Asked if I like it,
I like it, I speak out
Those few syllables, mess myself.
The point is, I think,
To empty—?
It feels good.
To be two men
Interlocked in a
sentence
Still forming. We
Danced the dance that
says I want you,
Come closer,
Come in me.
No, really, he said
As a whisper—Boy,
You want to be possessed.
Because, you see, he’d
been removed
From his body then,
Per usual,
His beauty, like a talisman, offered,
His woundedness revealed—
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