Monday, December 22, 2008

Saturday, December 13, 2008

City of Men by Donald Rawley

I am in love in a city of men.

Men who grab
my backward glance
with the threatened beat
of their breath,
men whose nights
are convenient and sly.
Men with mirrored glasses and rifles
laughing on the freeway,
men who punch the air with
their angry sex
men with the squint of a hyena.

This is my city
And I smoke cigarettes like convicts.

My men are as peerless as dukes
with the static strength of statues,
with their cocks in hand
tempting fate
and the hair on their bellies a warning.
My men are prudent with joy,
men who discard love and memory
when their sight
has big muscle and hair
Men who allow me crime and melancholy.
Men who allow me nothing.
I take it all like barbiturates
and I am in a sleep of men.
Men who disorient me.
They take my eyes like dice.
I study their buttocks
with the greed of a child.

Men. I can be a vanishing act.

Men who know how to smoke a cigarette
without women's fingers,
men who understand their role.
Men with caked hair
under their arms,
men with pink skin and a lisp,
beautiful men with histories and gifts
as constant as a fine bell.

Men who die for no reason.
Men who have a white light
like Valentino or Clara Bow,
the light moths
kill themselves for,
the white light that makes me
sit up and blink like a child,
a pupil
a student of men's eyes
lit with candles and starch,
a congregation of men
who are fireflies and saints.

Men are as kind as
any animal who can steal.
As kind as your sexual history of Mexico
with your men reeling with tequila.
Men who smell as fine as dirt
and the salty perfume of paid sex,
men who allow their semen
to run through every channel.

Men. I can touch their palms when I dream.

Young men with still perfect limbs,
ex-husbands in loud sweaters
groomed men with clenched teeth
who hover in packs
beyond the shotgun eyes
of deserted women,
fat men with a comic's sweat and ripe hands,
tired men sitting on safe settees
full of bibles and loss
beyond the dull swipe
of rolled lawns,
men who make with piety
canonized in a frenzy of flesh,
men who masturbate their lives
so that every daylight
becomes their own private keyhole.

Men with cars for girlfriends,
men who live in air-conditioned ruins
choking with ghosts and fearing rain,
men who slam doors and telephones
men who have secrets and money
and clean nails,
black men with skin
like wet grapes
and teeth like winter clouds,
drunk men who walk like dancing bears
old men with wrinkled, ruined cocks
that peek out like rummy sailors,
men whose skin accumulates layers
like a granite shelf,
men with twisted veins like
Monterey pines running down
their clenched arms and spread legs.

Men whose lust is hurried and benign,
men whose lips are a crime,
men who are boys that play
with black leather and vaseline,
boys who shadow box their
fancy passions in alleys
and steam rooms until dawn.
Men who ride horses naked in the desert.
Men who surrender nothing.

Men with the pinched faces of thin air,
staring out of buildings
so high they can only see mountains
they do not understand.
Men in average blue suits
with wives in another state,
men with the laughter of poets
running elevators and pumping gas
with delicious, cracked large dry lips,
smoking unfiltered Pall Malls
and scratching their asses.

These are the men with the rhythm of
my city's white light,
men whose eyes are lit by gin and possibilities,
men who work in airports
and have never flown,
men who are not safe in numbers,
men who drive beat up old cars
and live with scarred women,
men who watch the stars
with drugs and candles
from the roofs of shabby buildings,
men who come like a car wreck,
men who are mindless
with prodigy,
men who eat rocks,
men with Cyprus green eyes
and hairy shoulders,
men who devour
a callous embrace,
all the men I find
beyond my barricades,
all the men who tell me
of hymns of earth
and the strength of my loins,
of tasting the white light,
of being in love in a city of men.

Antonio Biaggi








Literary fur

Chapter 4

The lift was crowded with men from the Alpha Changing Rooms, and Lenina's entry was greeted by many friendly nods and smiles. She was a popular girl and, at one time or another, had spent a night with almost all of them.

They were dear boys, she thought, as she returned their salutations. Charming boys! Still, she did wish that George Edzel's ears weren't quite so big (perhaps he'd been given just a spot too much parathyroid at Metre 328?). And looking at Benito Hoover, she couldn't help remembering that he was really too hairy when he took his clothes off.

Turning, with eyes a little saddened by the recollection of Benito's curly blackness, she saw in a corner the small thin body, the melancholy face, of Bernard Marx...
from Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

Baby face beefcake

Warm hands, warm heart (sic). Big hands...

Thursday, December 11, 2008

I'll show you mine if...

Merry Christmas from Toledo


Con permiso... I have been away having a eye-popping time in Madrid and Toledo and Valencia! Celebremos!! I am back now and I am suffering from post vacation depression..!

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Tuesday, November 4, 2008