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A Poem for PaulTo Shane Allison's previous piece     Birthday Poem for DavidTo 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

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

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

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?

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