FebulousFebruary 2025: Lost and Found

Queer

(after Guadagnino, Burroughs and Bishop)

Goodness but that yellow paintwork is grubby, 

exquisite arches but each one absolutely filthy.

I’d go all the way to Mexico too for that exact blend of canary and grime.  

Stupid I know but I’m hungry for new windows, new views. 

At your feet, a black rainbow snake nurses its tail.

Alone, unwitnessed means all the time in the world.

How else to account for my days of dust, my rainy city weeks? 

Kicking my heels in other people’s tropics, 

Is this what they call yearning?

Everyone here’s forever taking a drag, 

swallowing, laughing remarkably. 

I would do too, in situ.

Careful with that concealed revolver!

I want to talk to you without speaking.

A saucy Miss sits at the bar, eyebrow cocked like a pistol. 

Nothing degrades a person like a game of chance,

that white suit is getting grubbier by the hour, it’s the waiting.

Fingers grope in a bowl of sliced lemon, dash salt like dirt on the countertop.

Your hand, a rock, throttles a tumbler. above it, you rumble: más, más.

I want to talk to you without speaking.

I’m not queer, Lee.

I know.

The skyline at dawn like the morning after stubble burn,

the smoke of my sighs by your sleeping ear, más, más.

We all love somebody sometimes.

Dodo Brooks, Kent