An Ode to a City of Night & a Boy and His Dog

Walking hurriedly, The Bell Jar folded into a hip pocket,
I think darkly of razors and turkey necks.
Soylent-fog creeps through the dank shadow-valleys.
Brentwood, Westwood, Beverly Hills:
Bel Air Patrol secures nothing from us!

He pads ahead, tongue lolling; careless of the dues in shit
He’ll later pay for the rancid offal he scavenges in greed and glee
For he is Blood & I am Don Johnson;
Together, we are hunting!

Claws click-scratch the wet blacktop,
Rustling shitty leaves and frat-vomit.
Heels clop ominously through the languid night,
While the fake antique street lamps emit a sulfur haze,
Pitching the alleyways in garish Easter-pink
nipple
foreskin

Ragged laughter echoes down the reeking dorm
last dregs of keggers and hazings
Fuck is become the universal adjective
gerund
grunt

Screams summon no sirens on a night like this.
Yet, the Internet paints a lurid trail of misbegotten trust and tainted love…

Blood watches disinterestedly from the hallway,
while I stab the drunken boy relentlessly,
who warbles—as well he should!
Drunk as he is, he feels no pain.
My shaft drips wetly in the red light of the photographer’s dark room.
A limp flannel shit dangles open on my chest,
Revealing the tweaker-scars—another generation’s junkie pockmarks.

Discontent and hollow, jeans gathered
We leave.

Blood snuffling in the sewers
Always hungry
Always aching for another putrid morsel…

(Scowling, I fantasize Harlan Ellison and John Rechy
twisting
fisting
fucking)

So am I.