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Searching for Allen Ginsberg

I looked for you when boys called me a fag in junior high.
I needed you when Ira Miller poured milk in my face.
I searched for you at age 12 when I discovered the wonders
of masturbation in Aunt Tillie's bedroom,
in front of her black and white Zenith TV.

I wanted us to play with my sister's dolls together.
Where were you when I was walking in my aunt's high-heeled shoes?
We could have broke into my mama's make-up bag, smearing lipstick on our 
mouths.

I want to tell you about the first time I swallowed semen.
His name was George.

I searched for you on a filthy mattress in some dude's window-tinted van.
Where were you when Jack kissed me in a game of Truth or Dare,
when Nick stood me up at the movies and never opened my love letters?
I needed your shoulder to cry on.

I searched for you in Dennis' one bedroom apartment as he licked my ears,
suckled my boner and rubbed my hands with lotion after it all.
I thought you came back reincarnated as his smoke-gray cat.
I searched for you in the reflection of Ben's windshield, in Robert's 
ocean-blue eyes.

I searched for you in the underwear of frat boys,
in the medicine cabinet mirror of John's apartment
before he left me for a red head from Boston.

Is that you Allen, darling in the produce section
squeezing apples as ripe as my nipples?

Wish I were there when you read your poetry
on the steps of Florida State University,
when Reagan wouldn't say the word AIDS in public,
when you shot poetic loads in his Republican scalp.

I search for you in smoke-filled coffee houses,
in every man's apartment I have ever been in.
I search for you in the tearooms of Columbia University,
the teacher's lounge of Brooklyn College.

I search for you in the lobbies of bus stops,
in the personals section of gay porn magazines.
I search for you in piss porcelain urinals of shopping malls.
Check for signs of Jewish ejaculate in the rings of gloryholes.
I search for you through the concrete jungle of America.

Thought I heard your voice in the voices of guys who would ask,
"Hey man, you gotta big dick?  Can I see your dick?"
I'll read Kaddish for a hand job Allen.

You appear in my dreams, butt-naked and sweaty beneath my covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. Your Beatnik lips circle my 
erection.

As Collin Haley mounted me in a multiplex movie theater,
I wanted you to be there to watch
and fondle your crotch in the row across from us.

As I look up into the face of the guy in Tom Brown Park,
his dick stuffed in my mouth like a turkey drumstick, I wanted it to be you.
I want you to be apart of my nutritious breakfast.
I want you in my bedroom naked under the covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. And in the morning,

let's talk about poetry over coffee and English muffins.
Let's get naked and smoke pot on the hardwood floors of my apartment.
Let's go whistle at the boys on Christopher Street.
Tell me what's the best time for you and I will be there.

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