by J. Marcus Weekley
It wasn’t us singing Respect in the shower.
It was your kisses like winter rain on my cheeks
and my gnarled hands clutching nothing.
It was my chest next to yours like two lions
caught in a bramble of briars, bloody hearts beating desperately.
It was the disentangling of marble bodies
from flaming souls.
Before I Stopped Clubbing
With the lights and the pounding and the bodies like neon,
gone in the waves of some new man’s sweaty lips
and skin and the after-the-evening-IHOP-trip.
Spending life-years for one chest against another
and the morning leaving ritual: the shower,
the ride home, the naked want.
I fell for a man with holes in his hands and an
and the rest of eternity to serve me unleavened hotcakes.
for Sarah Bell
I am tired of hearing those Vogue-girls’ pantyhose calls.
I am tired of pushing my tombstone up this hundred-dollar-bill hill.
I am tired of preaching 1-900 prophecies to Beethoven ears.
My diamond-pierced hands and feet and this woozing side-wound:
I no longer crawl, walk, or hobble.
I am a new metaphor:
a user-friendly on-sale monthly-bonus entertainment-center
Plug me in.
Turn me on.
©2002 by J. Marcus Weekley