My Last Wilde Boy Salon

My Last Wilde Boy Salon

“Brad would
rather be dead”
—Richard Howard
“My Last Hustler”

There they all are—
lounging and lying naked
or rather lying in wait for
whatever I’m going to read
them, some on coke or pills, 
others with eyes without flashes 
of lust or blushing, shameless desire,
only a boredom, a tender tribute
to neither Wilde nor eroticism

These are serious customers—
I say to myself perusing the mob,
suspicion creasing their faces,
obviously once all those Botux lips
were naturally puffy with boyfriend
wonder and compliant fleshy joys,
but now far beyond blowjobs,
these young Wildean poets already
have the look of Sebastian Melmoth 

I’d blow them sympathetic kisses—
but what does a old queen like me
have to offer these young boyish 
poets that already seem more jaded
than me, their modern day bateau ivre
journeys much more arduous than mine,
this salon reception room standing room
only crowd I’m reading to & discussing
Dorian Gray if only she were here

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