To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Shane Allison's previous piece To Shane Allison's next piece
Cologne & Cigarettes Think of your hair tangled around my fingers as we sit closely in the corner of Drama Technique. Your knee knocks against me. I'm sick with heart throb love poems. Puke my quarter pounder with cheese in the polyester lap of a Tal-tran bus driver. You chew my ear off about how you suffered vodka dick in the bed of a girl, whose name you can't remember. You tell me how you danced with a gorgeous drag-queen until your feet drowned in blood. Cologne and cigarettes mixed in your shirt and jeans. I want to give you tongue. Give you head in my mama's broom closet. Oh Sam, beautiful adonis of Fort Myers spawned from the sweet womb of your mother. Your father's angelic smile. I long for you during those Sunday night infomercials. Oh Sam of masturbation poetry. Oh Sam drunk endlessly off eight rounds of Tanqueray and Tonic. Oh Sam whose golden body stands soldiered, naked before me. Oh Sam in your underwear. Oh Sam whose cock rests in my mouth like a warm chick, whose balls hang beautifully above my face. Oh Sam of ruby nipples, of endearing asshole, where are you tonight? Oh Sam, dick filled with syrupy cum, lying wedged between Alison's breasts where are you tonight? I want to jack you off under the desk of poetry workshop. Why is it that you never look at my breasts that way? I've never caught you once staring at my crotch. Oh Sam, alone, in your room, blasting Metallica, making three point shots out of shitty poetry Kleenex and Trojan condoms, why can't it be me? Oh Sam who I seek muscular, straight acting, smoking, drinking, tall, intelligent, who I want to be more than just friends with, who is equipt with banana dick, ass in cargo pants, whose eyes and ears burn from bong in David's living room, who I gift with flowers delivered by the greatest boys of Tallahassee, when will you come to me? Oh Sam whose pants look better on my bedroom floor, whose shirt lies hung like panty hose over my bed post, the man I cook weed omelet and orange juice for the next morning, when will you come to me? When can we go out to dinner, a movie on me? Tie me down, make a queer bitch watch American History X as you pin my eyelids open with toothpicks. Oh Sam whose semen I swallow, that tastes like cheese and macaroni, that gives me strength stronger than the Incredible Hulk, will you be my Valentine? Oh Sam aromaed in cologne and cigarettes when will you come to me? Oh Sam I give you my pulse. I give you my heart on a sleeve. when will you come to me I want to be your slave licking your toes. What happens after the last poem written, after the words have been said after we break away: you to your purple car me to my truck parked for hours under the eye of the sun? Oh Sam who can't imagine a man's hairy ass sitting on his face, can I kiss you? Can I envelope you in these arms you sexy motherfucker?
To the top of this page