Leaving the straight life behind

 

the Dark Knight
strips from his clothing,
soft light lifts from
his brown skin like
a setting sun

black leather rustles
and creaks, zippers
rip open, a boot
falls to the floor

black underwear
drops to the carpet
like a whisper

he stands tall and erect,
a sexual classic, a planet
for lust to discover

blonde hairs sweep
over the skin's landscape
like an August brushfire
in the California hills

his back is long and narrow,
bumps of vertebrae lead down
the central pathway: this
could be a road well-travelled
to the round buttocks,

to the cleft of shadow hiding
the dark gateway to the anus,
the narrow road to the deep north

where the trunk bifurcates
is a place of mystery:
at the fork of two rivers
the Celts used to erect an altar

for us it's the biological
rumpus between the legs,
the site of noisy
male phallic pretensions,
where urine escapes, religion
recoils, pornography gazes,
and voyeurs visually fondle,
and rapists dream of
terrible things...

the young knight
spreads his fingers
through the soft curls
of pubic hair down
to his smooth thighs

he touches his balls,
then gently pulls back
the foreskin from
his glans

breathing faster
his muscles harden,
he strokes his stiff penis
until white sperm shoots
in tight arcs
into the air

in a darkroom on Folsom Street
at four in the morning Shiva dances
his nataraj, and the sky
is silver with stars

 

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