Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Two by Shane Allison


Doug

Your lips are gum drops in my mouth.
You don't know I'm watching you.
                                                    
Seek your face through visions of a poet's eyeglasses,
Legs collapse into train tracks
                                                   
Pieces of you sketched
on wide-ruled lines of notebook paper.

Reach past a glass of watered down strawberry cola,
Past a plate of chicken bones,

to the telephone dialing your number.                                     
"Is Doug there?" "This is Doug."

I stop sweating and no longer wish you were not home.





Jaime

is that you in gelatin-silver print,
sitting on a hardwood bench?

You know if you sit on hard surfaces
long enough, your dick will fall asleep,

but if you get up and walk it off a little,
the feeling comes back like an ex-boyfriend

who didn't know what he had until
it packed its shit leaving nothing

but dirty dishes and a drawer full of condoms,
extra sensitive for his pleasure.




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