eighteen holes of dark
The Black Steer is red neon on brick we walk under hoping for a table all the while holding hands and telling you over my third or fourth whiskey that I’d like to fuck you on the table at last we order and wait another cigarette you’re beautiful sucking on your B’n'H my Gauloise feeling loaded between my fingers smoking hot lemon water finally drives your pale thighs from my mind and you collapsing beside me my eyes lock onto your bra-strap beneath the white T-shirt you’ve borrowed for the evening and I light another cigarette on returning I watch to see if others watch too sitting down you smile at me and yes no black bits of charcoal between your teeth I leave (trailing your gaze the length of the restaurant) stand at the urinal naphthalene fumes you pay the impersonal price we split at the table before leaving bridging the gap between two people resolutely separate with entwined fingers driving you deal with the man asking for money in darkness sticky with impending rain and decades-old obsequious hatred these one-way sentences ending in cul-de-sacs the rain your tears follow turns my heart to embrace a darker night and a shirtless man shivering some cold morning on an overnight bus in the middle of nowhere I note the red depressions covering your naked body from the clothes left on the bathroom floor the verandas old wicker arm-chair supports this view of the city our weight your joint my cigarette and penetrations necessity your smokes sweet aroma blends exotically with my black tobacco and reclining our obscenity can again abscond the immediate chasm our sex serves to heighten these one-way sentences ending in this apartment channelling hardened layers of sentiment in heaps along the corridor my lamp casts its light roundly on my squared writing pad illuminating our excursion and your heaving mass seething this darkness we swim as a dream
Leave a Reply