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.