Waiting to be loved by the New York night.
posts up on Flatbush, kiss his timid sole.
The skyline from Brooklyn, resembles
A hobo’s cum. The negro air, absent of calm.
The tops get ready to vogue, werk & kiki.
His Massachusetts pimp says, he got two
More months of Brooklyn poetic fuck.
The clotted traffic on Atlantic Ave
Is his cross. He’d give it all to be kissed
By BK on last time. The polluted help
That resides under his lip, bleeds the young
Night from his tongue. Only one thousand
Four hundred, sixty one hours left to find rent.
What Lips Can Do
was it the glimmer of light
your erotic seductive gaze at state
you, black lips
abandoned amygdala in love with brail
tender, my nakedness
for a bird like me to forget
bequeathed a kiss
call me sex craved
and swallow Mary Jane’s abortion,
his eyes a soft philosophy
silent, his lips a drug
Behind the walls
I weave your pain
Tipsy like a book title
Honey, intimate and brave
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