The Hours Of Sadness
Comes the golden Light of the Dogday afternoon...
waiting for the sacred Hour when he comes to my Room.
He brings me Flowers beautiful, he's been doing that for Years,
and photographic Memories, Trophies of his... Victories...
... Vouchers of Conquests, boldly flagged, streaming high... on Mass of
Battle-ships,
sailing on the troubled Seas, Waters of dull Aquaintances,
spread out on the Blackness here of this shroud-like tablecloth crocheted...-
glossy Evidance of Lust, of all the handsome Men he had.
Like an Assassin's Game of Cards,
unshuffled Oracle of Love,
of one Nightstands, half hearted Loss,
stolen Kisses, past Jerk-offs.
Liassons that went nowhere,
fleeting Moments, without Hope or Care,
all laid out now before me here
between Dessert Plates & cups of Tea.
I feel for him
as I feel for no other Man,
but Sadness is the only Thing
that he and I will ever share...
Each Polaroid, it bears a young,
but slightly out-of-focus Face,
white Teeth exposed in Flashlight-smiles,
well-defined Bodies, strong & tanned...
Names & Numbers, Cyphers traced
like Promises upon each Frame,
according to the features shown;
sadly, all poses look the same.
I hardly speak, I rarely do,
my role is just to sit & listen
to the Tales he unfolds, offers to me,
his palest "Hunt of Agony"...
...the sexless priest,
the joyless Clown,
who never judges, only frowns,
Sipping tea & offering Chocolate Cake,
for it does concole the Heart that lies in Ache.
The fading portraits on my walls,
dead people I have never met,
unlike his photos, Trophies all,
decount to Lovers, Men he had...
I feel for him
as I feel for no other Man,
but Sadness is the only Thing
that he and I will ever share...