not so lucky anymore

Beside the crowded café brothel
dogs fuck to the thud of disco
pumped from broken speakers

The man with the withered leg
begging on the sidewalk is faking it
but I drop him money anyway.
There aren’t enough good actors in this world.

A little whippet of a boy
tilts his head and chants
‘hello, hello, hello, hello, hello’
until the word is smeared into nonsense.
So much for cultural imperialism.

The small wooden altar
nestles companionably with other abandoments
by the side of the stinking canal.
Glanced by streetlight, it invites me
to give it another chance.
‘I could be lucky for you,’ it whispers like a whore.

His mop of black hair jerks up and down,
the rentboy’s sucking cock by the wall of my dimly lit alley.
The owner smokes and watches, feigning boredom.
He crushes out his spent cigarette and fishes another
from the pack in his shirt pocket. ‘Got a light?’ he calls.
I hand him my lighter and he uses it,
ejaculating a thick stream of smoke.

My cat came home missing part of his right ear.
But he seemed alright with it.
Perhaps it’s a mark of manhood
or a rite of passage
in cat society around these parts.
It’s not like he can lose his balls;
I removed those already.
He’s never really forgiven me.

8 Responses

  1. That’s so evocative. It makes one feel one’s there in the street. It makes one want to be there, smelling it, tasting it all in real life.

  2. Brilliantly evocative. Ever since I read your essay “Setting &Theme”, I’ve been thinking about it with reference to my own writing and to other erotica. This poem paints a very vivid picture, and repeats the same point. Thank you.

    o.g.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.