Tags
art, bastard's silence, butch queens, femme boys, I love blue, poem, Poetry, psychedelic, rent boy, selfie, The Other
How does that simple gesture of finger
across lips silence us? How do fingers
digging deep into fabric mean pleasure?
I’ve drunk from dripping rain; but what is hers
isn’t mine. What do butch queens signify?
If I’m narcissistic and perverted
it is only because such love is sly
and hard to find; like a booty goon, stud
muffin or power bottom. All the words
that we have for the Other, for one who
isn’t, could fit on the head of a cock,
a pin, a rent boy’s tongue. I’m the bastard’s
silence. The first question. How much can you
take in? Open your mouth, but please, don’t talk.
