MY STRANGER … SO SWEET.
So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
indiscriminate
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.
DIRTY TALK.
Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk —
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals
pulling me to my knees,
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.
Je veux un amant.
Je veux un amant, un vrai โฆ
et je le veux maintenant.
Comme Arthur Rimbaud โฆ ou Jean Genet.
Non pas comme ces mauviettes
qui ont parsemรฉ ma jeunesse :
lโoncle qui mโavait convaincu que jโรฉtais
une โtapetteโ, un โgogo bizarreโ,
avant que je nโapprenne
ce quโรฉtait la baise ;
et cet enfoirรฉ qui mโa violรฉ
dans la maison de sa mรจre โ mโobligeant
ร tenir ma langue de peur quโelle ne se rรฉveille
et appelle la police โฆ pour me coffrer, ou pire.
Ou bien encore cette โfolleโ sadomaso qui
possรฉdait tout un attirail de jouets sexuels
et de godes en caoutchouc,
mais qui se fรขcha lorsque je me mis ร rire
parce quโelle ne pouvait plus bander โฆ normalement.
Je veux un amant, un vrai ;
qui puisse me sucer et mโenculer
et me prendre comme un โhommeโ.
Je veux un amant, un vrai โฆ qui soit
tout ce quโil dit รชtre ; et qui sโen ficherait
que lโon apprenne quโil aime un autre homme.
Je veux un amant, un vrai โฆ
Comme Arthur Rimbaud โฆ ou Jean Genet.
Et je le veux maintenant.
BLADE.
our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a saber’s cutting edge.
je vais juste t’enculer โฆ
there is no other way
out of this predicament.
the constant tumescence
is almost unmanageable.
everywhere I am,
everything I do โ
I think about you โฆ
and, well, you know what.
je vais juste t’enculer โฆ
my biggest fear is that
my unyielding obsession
will become chronic,
and perhaps even terminal.
in the former case,
even having you as a live-in lover
would not be enough.
no, I need to feel your absence,
envision you from a distance
and hunt you down mercilessly โฆ
again and again, forcing you
to submit to the inevitable.
je vais juste t’enculer โฆ
I will stalk you even after death;
and we โ two sultry glowing balls of light โ
will dance a passionate bolero
with seductive pauses every now and then,
perhaps a bit of love-making and brazen flirting โฆ
but, of course, most of all:
je vais juste t’enculer.
tu sais : je vais juste t’enculer โฆ
Leave a Reply