| Comes the golden Light of the Dogday afternoon…
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| waiting for the sacred Hour when he comes to my Room.
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| He brings me Flowers beautiful, he’s been doing that for Years,
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| and photographic Memories, Trophies of his… Victories…
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| … Vouchers of Conquests, boldly flagged, streaming high… on Mass of
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| Battle-ships,
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| sailing on the troubled Seas, Waters of dull Aquaintances,
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| spread out on the Blackness here of this shroud-like tablecloth crocheted…-
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| glossy Evidance of Lust, of all the handsome Men he had.
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| Like an Assassin’s Game of Cards,
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| unshuffled Oracle of Love,
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| of one Nightstands, half hearted Loss,
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| stolen Kisses, past Jerk-offs.
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| Liassons that went nowhere,
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| fleeting Moments, without Hope or Care,
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| all laid out now before me here
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| between Dessert Plates & cups of Tea.
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| I feel for him
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| as I feel for no other Man,
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| but Sadness is the only Thing
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| that he and I will ever share…
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| Each Polaroid, it bears a young,
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| but slightly out-of-focus Face,
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| white Teeth exposed in Flashlight-smiles,
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| well-defined Bodies, strong & tanned…
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| Names & Numbers, Cyphers traced
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| like Promises upon each Frame,
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| according to the features shown;
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| sadly, all poses look the same.
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| I hardly speak, I rarely do,
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| my role is just to sit & listen
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| to the Tales he unfolds, offers to me,
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| his palest «Hunt of Agony»…
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| …the sexless priest,
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| the joyless Clown,
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| who never judges, only frowns,
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| Sipping tea & offering Chocolate Cake,
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| for it does concole the Heart that lies in Ache.
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| The fading portraits on my walls,
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| dead people I have never met,
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| unlike his photos, Trophies all,
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| decount to Lovers, Men he had…
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| I feel for him
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| as I feel for no other Man,
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| but Sadness is the only Thing
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| that he and I will ever share… |