What thoughts I have of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg, for I cannot walk but must drive and inch along in this hideous L.A. traffic.

I understand now why you chose to walk down sidestreets, under trees…If only I could do the same, but when I walk I inhale black clouds of car exhaust and cannot see the full moon behind the sagging veil of smog that blankets the city.

In my sexual hunger, I shop for pornographic images; I went into the neon dildo sexual supermarket, dreaming of your alliterations!

Peach flavored condoms and pink plastic pussies! Young couples shopping for undiscovered pleasures at night! Aisles full of husbands, searching for stacks of new naughty nudes to hide in the garage under dated stacks of Modern Mechanic! Dissatisfied wives dawdling over the decision of the pliable pink jelly-roll or the white waterproof revolving cock rocket! —and you, George Platt Lynes, what were you doing down in the twenty-five cent nudie booth?

I see you, Allen Ginsbserg, with your heavy black glasses and your balding head still producing some long frizzy hair, poking and stroking at your meat and eyeing the boys.

I hear you screaming: “Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!  The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!” Are you my angel? My avant-garde angel, who whispers dirty words to me in my ear as I lay awake in the dark with the buzzing of two C-batteries between my legs, hearing in my head the words you wrote for countless queer boys.

Where are we going, Allen Ginsberg? The doors to this seedy sex shop close in an hour. Which way does your dick point tonight?

(I touch your books of poetry and dream of everything from homosexual boys to hating America, and I feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? Or will you drive with me through the smog until we find somewhere more clear, more free, more open? Will someone understand my twisted fantasies, the way I understand yours, or will we both be lonely while other couples go home to f*ck all night with furry handcuffs and strawberry flavored lubricants that warm on your body as you rub the sticky red dripping fluid all over…

Ah, dear father, lover, black beard, lonely old balding teacher, poet, pusher, cocksucker, boy fucker… Maybe you could show me a thing or two.

 

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Ed: Bryonie Wise

Photo: Bryonie Wise