I am so deliriously in love with Keaton Henson and the gentle savagery of this piece. (There’s a perfect moment where the camera falls on the stretch marks at the side of his stomach and it’s so honest.)
I took the A-train uptown to hear her sing,
she said I’d be safe going in with her
but man, the looks I got. And all around
everyone looking so fine and cool
and eyes flashing out of those dark
spaces, filled with things I’ll never know.
And when she sang, it was like the moon
melting down, white pearls and black satin
and a sudden silence that only she could bring.
~ Robert Mitchum’s poem about Sarah Vaughn
When I was a child I adored Robert Mitchum. A little boy’s man crush. Reading this, I see that he is still my kind of guy.
Elegance, detail of Tara, nepali sculpture
etched as an ache in my hand
is a heart line that runs east
a mekong delta flowing
from me to the sea
of emerald green dragons
monoliths that sleep eternally
beneath your ancient moon
Poet at Rest #22. Dale Cody.
Collage by so-realism/x-changesDance with me she demanded, with her knowing eyes and Latin hips.
The taste of a man.
“Nobody writes about the taste of a man.”
It is an unrelentingly human taste. Salt,
sweat, skin. Sweeter in the summertime;
all that ripe fruit, pineapples he can’t cut without
injuring himself, juice from a peach spilling
from his mouth and pooling in the palm
of hands that touch me with a purpose,
sometimes without, touching me
just to assure himself that I’m there, idly
dipping his thumbs into the back of my jeans
because he is the only one who can. I know
without looking that he is watching me
and remembering the way my tongue moved
against him, curling
and coaxing. I would rather
suckle the juice from his cupped hands,
rather he tasted like honeydew,
could not ever describe the flavour of him
as pleasing for any reason other
than the sharp intake of breath,
the impossible love I feel for him when he comes.
This stubborn, strong man reduced to a whimper,
pouring himself into me,
and I want it, every drop,
licking and sucking even after it’s done because
he wants me too and there is no part of him,
even this, especially this,
that I could ever refuse.