Tenderness Was Lacking

Not because of his mohawk or tattooed vine
of thorny roses over one ear
but because of a familiar hunger
known to us as men
a desperation driven by sex-need
for same-touch;
flat stomachs pressed together
the violence of calloused hands restrained
teeth bared biting knotted neck muscle
—making stone bend.

He touched me like strange meat and not himself
held my cock like it was some plastic
unbreakable toy
—shaking it hard to make it work.

 

Kit Fox

You got that smile low to the ground, that sandy grin
running all the way up into your reddish brown fur
close cropped behind your ears, untamed
tongue hung out in greeting
I've known you before, the thin limbs
the laughing grace, there's something familiar
I can't quite place it, new to this landscape
dragging the ghosts of the city behind me.
You're quick, but now you approach
with casual languor, pausing at the counter
for an iced coffee, acting almost bored
in your nonchalance, like a coyote
asking tourists for potato chips along the roads
inside the park —that tilt of the head
hungry, but unwilling to show it.
I've got your number, and can't help grinning in reply.

 

Leather Rusting

His jacket fell there by the chair
and I stooped to pick it up
bringing it to my lips, my hands
delighting in the feel
of tired leather worn down to his fragile size.

Inhale and remember bacon frying on Sundays following long
drinking nights, cloying nausea
still writhing on the inner sea.

—There cleaves his cigarettes
like cologne strong and sad
but stronger still for nights consumed in nervous fingers
caught out in the rain
alone in his lonely arms
hugging his chest
afraid to fall
—black rusting cycle leaning heavy against the wind
and coffee stops at roadsides
when there was no money for beer.

I pull his jacket over me
fold myself into wooden kitchen chair.

 

© 2007 Raymond Taylor - Contributor's Bio