Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Where Micky Meets Jacky (fantasy challenge)

ok ok - so in this fantasy I'm Kerouac on a date with Michelangelo - I wrote this a good while ago but have been waiting for a chance to come out of the closet with it

Where Micky meets Jacky

White swirl pastissed tracery,
Jack’s filthy irony crafted,
honours his friend’s stinking boots.
Real manhands came out the night, smoke on rye,
their imminent attack a glory smell of piss and ah

how sweet this meeting, minds flirtspitting.
Nuances: garlic, recent cum, pink marble hotshots.
Possible for veins to coincide.

2 fellas pussyfoot elbows.
Lowell greased cheap worsted one alongside
some chic old Rome(o) shit. Wrists.

His guest musta just jerked off, he could smell him.
Stories from extravagant lips, his terribliatà.
Frowns, big rich intelligences, temporal lobes
flying zones through speed and drink

drinktalking paint over cocks.
Loves them, feels them in his palm,
sublimated brush handles rhythmying.
Layed down for years on his back, hard.

“Arrive, mes ti’s anges,” but…
“I know, they won’t.”
“Fuck you Duluoz/prick-teaser,
give me American hope!”

“Come, come, my little fag, have another ouzo-ouzo,
you’re on vacation, mon cher Michelfuckingangelo.
Here’s to my shadow side.
Screw that before you go back te Italy.”

“No no I have my David. Dear.
But ‘closer, spare me your round delicious

He smoothes Jacko’s earlobe.
Nails a chisel slit along its edge.
“Christ like a cicatrice.”

Tells of his dominatrix.
“I have her whiter than women have a right to.
Such creases.
He swoons across ‘er knees.
Ooh soo sssubmissive.”

Wet lips Ti Jean wants ta pump with bourbon.
Mad kisses full on suck him for all to see,
tongue doing demo inside his hot dewaring mouth.
“My Pietà,” he slobbers tilting fall

ing. Next morning both are uncovered inert,
fuming absinthe-fuel vapours;
Buanarroti stained with ejaculate,
a pinch still wet,
fist dreaming around his artist’s implement.

Kerouac, having barely missed a great pancake of vomit,
is gently persuaded out of stupor
by some would be beat around his head.
Tingles with sage, goodgrass and olivemusk.

Fresh ooze correctly lines his right auricular helix.
From its ridge, filaments run down his bluewhite cheek.
Blood not-carrara but orobico rosso,

        back Must stick


Pris said...

I have to say, it takes a special mind to create a poem like this:-) I enjoyed reading it!

Lee Herrick said...

Wow...I love the movement here. Vibrant, bold, fun. I want to read it again and again.