Page 409 - Gay San Francisco_Eyewitness Drummer
P. 409

Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                389
                awareness of leather, hustling, drag, transgenders, and drugs.  — Mark
                Hemry, editor


             I did not think they searched for God
             When on weekends they razed the neon world
             Or in the nights poured out in screaming emergency
             Wards carbolic and tiled echoing
             The surprised stares of the suddenly mangled.
             Him they carted in — then brought his legs
             Still the bloodied wheels railroad along impersonal tracks
             Morphine and plasma for a dirty drunk?
             He can sell pencils (RR’s compliments)
             Outside amber bars till some young tough
             Kicks in his head for condom quarters.
             All the king’s horses foul the city streets
             And dogs drink in the gutter
             Petticoats Petticoats see the petty pretty coats, inviting.
             The bruised once-woman tumbled from the stained bed
             Fainted in her own vomit
             Desecrating, they seek empty gods
             In the arched chapel of a crotch
             Eternal syncope of ends open to the pubic public.
             Dead seed of dead seed.
             Mechanical march through a vast
             Urinal flushed of hope.
             Adrenalin in full flow
             Panting down a running alley they flee
             Thinking that they chase. Stop.
             Breathe in dark doorways.
             Young muscle flexed hard against limp city dryads
             Bistrodeep in beer, worship the golden hubcap.
             Scream of jazz and rag of rock.
             Anguish of breath strangled saxophonically.
             Dancing shadows of aborted fullness.
             The beat and black and blare
             Drug with false strength the zombie faces and secret
             The driving atomic fear. Unknowing,
             Adonis dies fearing
             Only that someday he shall die. Missing
             The point. Dying like seconds in

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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