Laying on Proust's Grave
All the boundaries are being broken,
but I would be frowned on if I openly disclosed
some of the secrets of my life. The tired new writer
has used this angle before, gathering responses from
“Casual Encounters” ads on Craigslist, experimenting
with one-night stands and fleeting Grindr hook-ups.
But I’ve a secular job and must remain anonymous.
The business world doesn’t do well when leaders
lead double lives, poet or porn star.
Of all the profound things, haven’t you learned anything
from Cocteau? Or Rimbaud? Or Burroughs? Or Genet?
Of course we don’t need to limit this discourse
to artists of that spectrum. Some of the best
literature is based on real life, after all.
What I found though was the voice.
Only a sexy child of poetry like you
could get away with such a thing in this
day and age while flagrantly touting a clichéd
hero across the black and white landscape of
further jaded ideals (freshly said only with
a mouth so cute).
We’ve been waiting for you.
I have seen hundreds of lost poet boys
relaying in a coy sexy pretext, highly versed, and
playfully lascivious, but just enough to want more.
This spot in history has been reserved for you.
Already so elated in a brash and rebellious manner,
we bow down to you and your black tighty-whities,
face down, ass up. You were born to get away with this,
and you shall because you are blessed like the wild boys
before you. On Proust’s grave, fully laid out beneath the
Parisian sun, when I meet you face to face, our eyes exchange
with swollen glances like universes merging again and again.