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Poem in Celebration of My PenisTo Shane Allison's previous piece     A Poem for Leonardo DiCaprioTo Shane Allison's next piece


I Call You Phillip

     Because I don't know your real name. 
You were an angel in disguise dressed in light-blue shorts.   
 
I swallowed you whole.
 
Cum in my throat like snot. 
     Knew what I was doing at every single minute,
 
at every single second your shorts were pulled 
     to your sensational ankles. 
 
I was in control of all my faculties. 
     Your eyes were closed as you stood there 
 
with your dick in my mouth in the toilet of 
     Dillard's wishing I was Antonio Sabato Jr. 
        
or Mark Wahlberg in Calvin Klein underwear.
     I'm taking you home Ďcuz youíre the prize Iíve had 
         
my eye on in the food court. You are my stuffed pink panther 
     I won at some carnival game. 
 
Fuck the supposed boyfriend waiting for you
     dressed in a flower-print apron and oven 
 
gloves keeping the meatloaf made from his mama's 
     recipe, warm for his sweetie pie pansy boy.
 
The significant other lover who tapes all your favorite 
     TV shows when he thinks you're at work. 
    
You're with me now. You're in between my legs, 
     licking my marshmallow nipples. 
      
Call him and say you're going to be a little late.
     Big project at the office. 
      
I refer to you as Phillip because I know too many guys named John.
     Remember this face Phil my friend. 
       
Memorize the moment I made you cum,
     kissed and caressed your wash board stomach. I 
     
held your butt cheeks in these very hands like a new born baby.
     I used my tongue like a butter knife to split them apart. 
   
Got dirty hands and scraped knees for my trouble. 
     Hard to get any privacy with construction workers
  
blow drying their brisk hands. Black boys with gold caps in their mouths 
call me a faggot in ink pinned messages. 
          
Security guards like wicked witches are gonna catch us.
Their flying monkeys turn into night sticks thirsty for the thick richness of a 
           
faggot's blood. Stitches for a broken left jaw. 
Those blue shorts pulled to a floor of tile. 
 
Reeboks kicked in the corner of the executive toilet.
     Your arms and tee-shirt were held up to the heavens
 
leaving that torso exposed, open sore-like. 
     You ejaculated in my dirty mouth. I swallowed.
 
You looked safe. You smelled of Irish Spring.
     Hawked bucket loads of spunk in the nearby sink while
 
you hiked up your shorts, drops of heavenly spunk still hanging from 
     your angelic prick and I was left gagging, shivering,
 
over the sink watching spit and sperm slither down the drain.
     I call you Phillip because I didn't care what you're real name was.
 
You just looked like a Phillip to me. 

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