When Darkness Falls
He got there with a nugget for a tear
and a face full of pity, the transvestite asking me for heat
and then he wanted to bang me in the fanny.
The girls dance alone, like their mothers.
The boys look at them sitting in their lofts.
They imagine the girls kissing
and when they get excited they begin to kiss each other,
rub their beard and lingual barbells to the rhythm of techno pop.
Some are journalist. Some are strictly DIFFERENT but EQUAL.
At five in the morning they kiss and touch
then high speed out of there and
Night ends in tragedy. And what do they do?
They return whenever needed.
They wait and hope morning doesn't arrive.
They return to the corner where the travesties do their rounds
for money and pleasure.
They throw in the towel for the speed of a gesture.
For the volatile in their emotions. A few brushes against each other
are enough to tighten their waist and make them feel the pain
of hard-hitting dolls. The solitary beat of the rhythm
will make them rape the rapport between their eyes.
They don't play slow music.
You see, they're not playing the blues anymore.
Hell, is where things buzz to the rhythm of a Cuban Son.
They have not had time to decide if they want to give to them in the rump.
Will they want to finish the dance, will they want to embrace fat bodies,
― I don't mean to offend ― walk in the park, and throw pigeons crumbs?
How late do birds stay up to sing when they hear blood flowing?