Dancing Like My Mother

Tiredness settles onto your head like a flock of birds
Perched on your eartips and brow bone

Posted by Johnny at 12:22 PM | Permalink | Comments

"Wake UP"
"Wake UP" they say.
COme now from the dim depths of that boring sleep.
You, yes you, dumbly huffing your dreams to dust
bundled in a sheet a blanket, coated coldly in your own sweat.
Rise now to the dusky dawn of 7am the streets
dripping with last nights rain
the air cool but thick.
Put on the hot water for coffee or tea
put on the stove for eggs with spinach and onions and cheese,
stumble from the dark of your windowless room,
stumble to the door, push it open and take in the beginning
of the day, the beginning of the day. Take it in
push it straight down into your knotted and tired gut,
push it straight down to your sleepy and itchy dick
to your tingling feet.
Push it down down down. Take in this day like its a meal
like it's mashed potatoes with so much butter and a little cheese
take it in like msg laden soup, like you can't stop
take this day in like drugs, like its 3am and all you want is more
more more more booze
more sex
more coke
more molly
more fun
more life
more night
more love
more party
more money.
Yes now. this is how to start the day. the same way you end it.
with hunger, unending, bottomless. this is the way to do it.

Posted by Johnny at 10:18 AM | Permalink | Comments

Don't look at my dick.
There's something wrong with it.
A rash, a itchy rash.
And my ass too.
Theres bumps there and a rash.
I haven't gone to the clinic yet.
I keep putting it off.
I can't bring myself to pay attention.
Instead I have a shot of whikey before work,
I drink so much coffee that I get mad.
I bury my head in my pillow with the shades drawn
and the fan on so I can't hear nothing.
Istead I scratch at my dick in public.
I soak it in hot salt water, and grit my teeth, drunk
tired
stoned.
So don't look at my dick

Posted by Johnny at 11:43 PM | Permalink | Comments

It's like this: You're half awake at 2am listening to the radio on the computer, and a man outside just below your window is singing sad sad alcohol driven and tempered songs. It's cool, slight winds, windlettes ease in through the cracked window, your eyes flutter and dim, his voice pushes higher and louder till it breaks, then there's silence, then theres sobs. You stare dumbly at the rocks glass full of dark thick whiskey, you look at your idle and heavy hands resting on the card table that is your kitchen table. You can not move. not yet. not now.

Posted by Johnny at 1:25 PM | Permalink | Comments

1.
the smells of boys. distinct and boozey.
Sitting at the bar, just men in here, some christmas lights
dimness, the mirror behind the beer display giving me
glimpses of me, suddenly muscles and manly in here, must
be the lights.
My friend comes up from behind I see him first, in the mirror,
turning my head to say hi, catching the strong metallic smell of
amyl, he's pressed a brown bottle to my nose.
Floating to my feet we push through the narrow columns of boys and men
to the tiny fog covered dance floor.
I almost take my shirt off.
I almost tell my friend how much I love him.
I pull deep from my peppery tequila and soda, it's coldness cutting through
and ending the headrush of the Poppers.

2.
Your room is dark. The electronic thrum of synthesized rain sounds block out
street noise. No windows means you're in a cave. It could be 8 a.m.
It could be 2 p.m. You wake on your left side, hugging a pillow to your chest and stomach. Behind you there is the breathing of a boy. His spit still on your mouth, the smell of him rubbed on your face, your hands still slick, with cum and sweat and spit and lube.

Posted by Johnny at 9:45 AM | Permalink | Comments