The Association of Man-Boy Love
(demonstrating outside, Saint Patrick's Cathedral,
hungry, cold, huddling to our sunlit admonitions,
swearing oaths inside us, weeping for the straights
who wear joy-colored neckties.)
Sitting here in the round,
rumpled old men, ass numb on gray-cement sidewalk,
milky thoughts with bits of fallen sky in our heads,
not engaged in naked body mindedness,
or moral likeness. Fifth Avenue
joy, bunghole of the world. High-heels clacking
lewd questions. Full of queer thoughts,
I hear the afterlife cries
of a dead baby, sputtering inside
the faces of strangers.
The children have leaped
down from the spires and cast
a spell on us. The pubic waves
come over the morning,
flicker in the shop windows,
self-righteous impulses bound,
tremble in the faces of ladies
staring out from a yellow bus.
A priest has twice opened a door,
peered out. His blue eyes
the violent fierce creatures
that devour the flesh like wild dogs,
secretly gnaw our bones and eat our brains,
lapping at our sweet intestines,
making us feel we're in fag-heaven.
Ernest Slyman
HomePage
www.geocities.com/soho/7514
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"All around the hours run swift
their foolish errands."
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