Last Night, Out Walking


Last night, out walking
I was hard beneath my coat
It was dark, the lamp-light dull
I walked on Elevator St, deserted
I wanted to walk forever
My cock hard
My jacket pulled tight around me
My collar up
My red, red scarf wrapped my neck
My heart beating calmly
The stars were desk-lamps not pointed angels
The trees were sailors not aged oil deposits
The bricks were books not bloody knives
The lamps were liquid-apple cores not femurs
I could smell geraniums and rosemary
I could smell the spying pervert
I could smell the rolling gonad
I could smell the waiting moon
I was hard thinking of a poem I was going to write
About being fucked
It would entail Querelle and Genet
Maybe Peter Pan and a Cadillac
A blowjob by Walt Whitman in an office
All secret thoughts had by me
While on Elevator Street-
Last night, out walking
Smelling the geraniums
In the light of a femur
With a hard cock
Under a waiting moon.

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