| 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… |