FEAST NIGHT

This feast night. Candy floss
by the plastic bag and hot dogs. Onions.
A swig of vodka
round the back of the Waltzer.
Scream if you want to go faster.
I touched his hand
on the twister and he touched mine back,
I think. Dangerous lights.
Someone is raging against the autumn dark
with bareknuckles.
A gang of lads
menace the dodgems. They swing
mallets. He fingers
her against the caravan. His breath
is hotter than whiskey
in her breasts and neck.
She notices
his fingernails have not been cut.

A LOVE NEST

We give up our single beds.
Somewhere in the house,
somebody
is testing your earlobe
with her teeth.

Somebody sweats.

Remember
that accordion
in the upstairs back bathroom.
How it eyed us both
from the bidet.

HOLY PALMERS

For saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

Wet hands under running water.
Take a measure of soap.
Work into hands, palm to palm.
Right hand over back of left and vice versa.
Rub palm to palm, fingers interlaced.
Back of left fingers to right palms,
fingers interlocked and vice versa.
Rotational rubbing of right thumb clasped in left hand
and vice versa.
Left wrist with right hand and vice versa.

THERE ARE TOO MANY COINCIDENCES TO YOUR MEETING JEROME

for SR

I wanted to lose my virginity. His motorcycle
would not start. He was a boy who lived

in the same village as I. He gave me a job
as his secretary. The elevator broke.

I can remember those numbers 3 and 5.
The fibowhatty sequence? The photos I found

in the grass verge were torn. I did a jigsaw.
It was Jerome and his wife. I started his motorcycle.

All of this is too made up to be true,
but it happened. What are you going to believe?

Years passed. That much can't be ignored.
He was a terrible fuck. Lies don't make it worse.

SEX SCENE

At first I tried simulating wanking with my cock
balled up in my hand like it was still soft
and I was working it hard. My hand was sweaty
from the heat of the lights and the flaccid muscle
squirmed in the grease. I thought of slugs.
It helped me avoid an embarrassing erection.
The director was asking me to stare
straight up her skirt and, although she wore
knickers, they had ridden to the left, exposing
her dark shaved labia. I still don't know
to this day if she had arranged it or if
it was chance let me glimpse. I kept on hiding
it in my palm for three more takes. She was nervous.
I found my eyes drifting from her cunt
to the corners of her mouth. The fascinating tremble
of her lips. What was she expecting?
I was twice her age. A lumbering legend
massaging my modesty. Ingenue. She was sliced
and garnished, served on a mattress. I let go.
Thought, what is a 43 year old man doing
being bashful? If I was taking her girlhood
I wouldn't be shy. I fell on her squeals
with my hands and thighs, pressing her open
like in real life. I'm no tit man. My method
is to lick and kiss their throats. I won't lie,
I came close to fucking her for real twice,
but in the end you're just humping the air,
dissatisfied and sweaty. After the cut,
we were awkward. I brushed some straw
from my ass and hauled my trousers up.
I offered my hand and she took it.
Hers were small like a child's, engulfed as I pulled.
Later we'd be  filming a breakfast
scene in the cottage. Bacon and sausages.
She was straightening her skirt and blouse
as I walked off set to my trailer.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.

PAUL

He is on the phone to Paul,
keeping his conversation all quiet like.
There is a lot he don't know,
that he mumbles.
He wants him to get his ears pierced,
these little lobes.
He wants him to go holes in his ears
and go down to Hull.

He is so young and beautiful
I want to have sex with him.
I want to be all over his bones
and nibble
them small lobes.
I want to go all holes with him
and go down to Hull with him.
To hell with Paul
whoever Paul is.

MASTURBATING AT THE GRAVE OF SYLVIA PLATH

It's something to fill the hours
this poetry stuff
at the grave of Sylvia Plath -
notebook in one hand,
a bottle of fizz in the other
or is that Jim Morrison?
or was that a can of Tennent's Super?

Eventually it gets hard
in your lap. It is damp.
Soon you will have to unbutton
and get it done.
No-one looking.
It is Keith Moon on that gravestone.
You are a teenager again,
a right proud arse on you,
red as a baboon.

ANTHONY MARTINEZ BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Anthony Martinez
23 years old
Auburn CA
$30

Met at Pink's
Blew him in the restroom
Fucked me

he said he was going to go
get a hot-dog
with extra mustard
and some blow

Had been with women
Get checked November
Call Nov. 13th

MIKE MILLER BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Mike Miller, 24 years old
ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, $25

One of my games -
two telephones
in an abandoned diner
and he picks
the left receiver.

I whisper
him undressed -
his shirt, his jeans, his socks.

From the hotel across the street
I watch him work
his soft cock hard
through Eschenbachs.
I talk him off.

And he hangs up on me.

He'll find 25 bucks in the coin return slot.

WILLIAM CHARLES EVERLOVE BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

William Charles Everlove, 28 years old
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN VIA ARIZONA, $40

He was never here
He never came
He was a ghost

I was never intimate
I never inhaled
I was alone

Somebody was never in the room next door
Somebody never heard
Somebody was in Texas

He was never anyone
He never lied
He was nothing

I was never told where he went
I never cared
I was important

DON SPINELLI BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

His white sox. His post-soccer,
post-baseball attire. He removes his shorts.
Don is the captain of the football team
and I am the same nerd I ever was.

I start at his upturned toe,
lifted to make it easier to take in my mouth.
I am squeezed to the floor. His spit.
I am told I am worth shit. I pay extra for this.

Sometimes we never go further
if that is his wish.
I perform to his insults and fists. I am trained.
We meet in derelict factories.

His gay for pay eyes. His girlfriend at home. 
She counts my dollar. His dick.
His will not love me so I will not love him.

"FOR SAM WORTHINGTON" BY FRANK O'HARA

"A leaving word in the sand, odor of tides: his name"
— Thinking of Sam Worthington

Sam Worthington
actor
made in UK

Will we ever know what
overwhelming excellence is? it's
real in this world
thumbing all
here
in the multiplex
next to the next
gasming
together as
one intook breath
never not unreleasing

"FOR TOM HARDY" BY FRANK O'HARA

"A leaving word in the sand, odor of tides: his name"
— Thinking of Tom Hardy

Tom Hardy
actor
made in UK

Have we ever known
about excellence? it's
real in this world
difficult muscle
you never not unripped

"FOR ZAC EFRON" BY FRANK O'HARA

"A leaving word in the sand, odor of tides: his name"
— Thinking of Zac Efron

Zac Efron
actor
created USA

Ever known
for real what excellence is? It's
real in this world
of your shirt
never not being unworn

RENT

£4.75 on the taxi meter
River Phoenix only got blown the once
Joseph Gordon Levitt never feared AIDS
Nobody loved you more than I did
Keep coming back bring your friends
Count the twenties into my hand before
This place costs £300 a month each
Outcalls need to cover expenses
He'll get me jobs for a 10% cut
Where do you think I got the money for this
River Phoenix paid the bills
Do you want me to wash after football
The ibroprufen are in the bathroom cabinet
The paracetamol are in the bathroom cabinet
I always keep a knife in this third drawer down
I never leave the meter running
I'll fuck you like they do in the movies
I can earn a week's rent in 45 minutes
Paying for sex isn't tax deductible
If you like we could get a hotel room
The best trick I had fed me coke and Champagne
Two is OK but five can get heavy
Anything kinky is extra
Joseph Gordon Levitt pretended to get fucked
The razors are in the bathroom cabinet
Not all of this happens under cover of nightfall
I keep my money in the locked top drawer
There are some things even I won't do
River Phoenix never got rimmed
Pick some porn from the pile in the corner
I always keep a knife in this third drawer down

CRUISING

for SM

The two of us, here, playing thugs.

Let's get roughed up behind the bank.

We'll bruise ourselves with shame and lust.

You can leave your wedding ring on

and I'll play pussy. Drop these masks

like trousers. Now we are real men.

Afterwards, you'll tuck your shirt in

to your still damp crotch, wipe your hand

on the brick. I'll rub the bite mark

on my cheek and worry what I'll...

We never exchange names, just shrugs.

We melt to life, anonymous.

Image taken from this excellent blog: here

LOVE POEM

I found this written on the back
of the gent's toilet cubicle door
of The Globe in February, 2003:

for oral here call 07XXX-XX6532
(I'll keep your number private
If you keep calling back).

Our fingers are tender from dialing.

ROCK

You did pillow talk,

keeping your voices low

so the kids couldn't hear

the sex. There was none.

No breaking of your vows

of silence. Doris Day,

marvelling at your straightened pinkie,

was in on the joke.

Nobody heard the sex.

In the darkness and the silvered hush

hands, fumbling under shirts

and projections, find a gasp.

Denim, forced tight, springs open

like a man trap. I have never felt

such excitement. The man in front

says keep it down, but we've come

and it is all over the screen.

SOME THINGS I HAD, NEVER KNEW, NEVER HAD

for J M-G

I gave him the best ten years I'd ever have
in me. Thought he'd be gone in five,
but he kept at it like a metronome.
The headboard knocking on the guest room wall
told no lie. Every night he'd slither in
beside me. A butterknife of cold skin
and a papery skeleton that still hungered.
He never stopped with that, right up
to the last like a lovesick teen.
Mostly I'd lie patient as a corpse. I never
told him I loved him. I never loved him
more than money. I lived a decade
just to feel it. So, if you think my story's crass,
imagine yourself, ten year worth of nights
counting the colours in the ceiling pattern
on your back, imagining things you never knew
you'd had. Tell me, could you imagine that?