Willie Smith

Porn Sheik

I miss the old days.
Slumped in a gloomy theater
smelling of old men and semen.
Up on the screen:
Abigail, Annette, Leslie – daisychaining to
beat the band. Sloppy tongues triggering trembles
along nyloned thigh, calf, ankle, toe, scarlet nail.
I’d for hours, taking in the double-bill, gawk.
Pick teeth; swallow now and then dry spit. Reel
after reel, guys, remarkable for their poles,
one by one the starlets take.
Smorgasbord of orgasms faked.
Take, in the end, the bus – breathing innercity funk –
back to my hovel, redolent of mildew, roaches,
mice, poetry read to the walls. Collapse
across the mattress.
Let the pictures behind the eyelids roll,
lapsing into thought trapped in the lap.
Till the nap, delirious as the blank page,
quick death chases.

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