Saturday, December 13, 2008


He sits there
in the subway car
coffee in his hand
and half-eaten memories
of the night
in his head.
How many were they?
to whom I gave head
one, two, three
after a while
they all look the same
the cocks
ass cheeks
oh, just wanted to
feel life
he sighs
life – if not in my heart
then in my mouth.
those cocks
thrusting back and forth
against my gullet
yellow cum
cum, the color of the old moon
on my lips
I inhale it all
and the loneliness
steps away
no longer gags
but then the night drags
as bodies lie breathing solemnly
freed from the weight
liberated from desire
I hide in the corner
touch myself
between my balls
still remain limp
it all just hangs there
like boiled shrimp
unable to come alive
my sixth sense of death
is stronger than the other five
I know it’s creeping up
like a pervert
inside boys dorms
waiting for me to kick off
and become useful –
food for the worms.


Anonymous said...

Hmmm... I can't say that the american contemporary poetry I've found... is very joyfull and is able to make me happy.


Gennady said...


Gennady said...

the first two comments were mine