The
beautiful boys and girls used to run
ragged
through the East Village, puking
on
sidewalks and fucking themselves stupid
with
the joy they borrowed from each other.
We
used to meet their cousins – tight
and
smooth, trusting adolescents
from
the Midwest. They let their hands
rub
up our thighs, to our soft or swollen spots.
Nobody’s
cousin is fucking anyone tonight.
There
was a time we said: love.
Then,
we said: appreciate.
I
discovered a lady’s tells, and she sent me away.
I
could steal her money and cut out her tongue,
but
she would still play with my fingers –
an
aimless, silent monologue through a mouthful
of
blood. This is how we knew each other.
This
is when we drank and fucked, forever
looking
for a path. She showed me her light
and
it turned out to be a train and a tunnel
and
we don’t know what we want anymore.
We
do know what we need.
I
need a bed that won’t quit and a meter
that
won’t expire, something I can keep
time
to when the light goes out.
And
all she needs is the hard cock
of
her handsome man.
