The Hours Of Sadness

Comes the golden light of the dogday afternoon
Waiting for the sacred hour when he comes to my room
He brings me flowers beautiful, he's been doing that for years
And photographic memories, trophies of his... Victories.

Vouchers of conquests, boldly flagged, streaming high... On mass of
Battle-ships
Sailing on the troubled seas, waters of dull aquaintances
Spread out on the blackness here of this shroud-like tablecloth crocheted
Glossy evidance of lust, of all the handsome men he had.

Like an assassin's game of cards
Unshuffled oracle of love
Of one nightstands, half hearted loss
Stolen kisses, past jerk-offs.

Liassons that went nowhere
Fleeting moments, without hope or care
All laid out now before me here
Between dessert plates & cups of tea.

I feel for him
As i feel for no other man
But sadness is the only thing
That he and i will ever share...

Each polaroid, it bears a young
But slightly out-of-focus face
White teeth exposed in flashlight-smiles
Well-defined bodies, strong & tanned...

Names & numbers, cyphers traced
Like promises upon each frame
According to the features shown
Sadly, all poses look the same.

I hardly speak, i rarely do
My role is just to sit & listen
To the tales he unfolds, offers to me
His palest "hunt of agony"...

...the sexless priest
The joyless clown
Who never judges, only frowns
Sipping tea & offering chocolate cake
For it does concole the heart that lies in ache.

The fading portraits on my walls
Dead people i have never met
Unlike his photos, trophies all
Decount to lovers, men he had...

I feel for him
As i feel for no other man
But sadness is the only thing
That he and i will ever share.