Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Youth and Young Manhood.

I had to be fast,
you know,
down the stairs
to get the key
to open the safe
to grab the cash
to call an escort
to pace the room
to watch the driveway
in case they came
before I did.

Fifty fucking minutes
pacing the hall
hating myself
out of control
feeling sick
wanting to vomit
wondering how it
dissolves
the lust
so quickly
that blind addiction
to imaginary women
in the yellow pages
who invariably turned up
and were surprised
by how young I was
and happy,
I guess,
because I was powerless.

And they'd take a shower
in my parent's bathroom
and I'd be sick thinking
oh fuck oh fuck
was that a car
was that a key
oh god fuck
I feel sick
I feel sick
and
she doesn't look
anything like
the fucking picture
in the yellow pages,
jesus.

And my seventeen year old cock
had no chance -
wrapped in plastic,
between her twin peaks
as she told me about
her boyfriend for fuck's
and all I wanted was for her
to scream at me,
something,
anything,
scream at me hot,
or even better,
scream at me as though you care
for the kid who knows nothing
who has called you here.

And afterwards,
I was a lonely
seventeen year old
thief,
spraying the rooms
with deoderant,
frantically straightening sheets
close to tears at myself
unable to control myself
I couldn't even manage that
and was it because he beat her
or was it because she let him
or was it because I was
a no good son of a bitch
who never had a hope?

After a few times,
I just sat on the end of the bed
and we rolled joints
and I pretended it was ok,
to steal money
to give it to some one
to pay for an hour
of friendship,
two people with nothing
between them.

You want me to still suck your cock?

No thankyou,
and my eyes fall to the floor,
and I want to cry,
or look manly,
or at least seem funny.

But my friend just says okay,
takes my pot
and gets driven away
and I go to my room and write a confession
which gets my mother beaten senseless.

So I start running,
running from the ghosts
and the guilt.

I start running,

and I never stop.

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