it’s an exchange of glances
gestures and smiles to communicate
desire, lust, need;
it’s our code of conduct,
a secret language;
i understand implicitly,
when he looks at me;
i obey,
completely;
without careful consideration,
momentary reflection,
i make my way to him;
the room dark, air heavy;
the smell of masculinity
and desperation mixes with
strange fragrances of spice
and jasmine; and the sounds
of fucking;
we kiss hard, bodies press together,
both naked, erect, tangled intimacies;
no time for introduction,
pleasantries, normal correspondence that
might lead to consecration;
the concrete floor is hard on my knees;
his cock in my mouth, his hands holding
my head, his hips moving;
it doesn’t take long;
he walks away, sated, leaves without speaking;
the room is not empty, others move in closer;
blood in the water;
four, five, ten;
roll around, penetrating, stabbing flesh;
high and careless, each takes their turn,
adds their emission; i find my own release
in a corner, alone; used and useless;
the night is cold as i exit,
footfalls ring out against concrete;
i light a cigarette,
realize there’s no sun to warm me,
no light to guide me,
only gray clouds and a sudden rain,
and sense of drowning in a gutter near mid-town;
jack henry is a california based poet living in the fringes between real and terror. more of his mutterings can be found at jackhenry.wordpress.com.
