Expunging the pain that rails the soul
Imposed by demons of theocracy’s creation
To spur into damnation wistful thoughts by free minds
Toward reward of flesh given to life senses
Composed of elemental consciousness
Born to all though realized by the few
The few strident in their challenge to refute
The shroud of restriction divinity imposes
To let flow the fluids of body’s purpose
That by its doing is to revere its creator’s creation
WARNING: Adult Sexually Related Content
With high unemployment, with rising costs of living in urban centers, many, especially young men, are forced into situations they otherwise would not consider but, when true hardship falls upon them, they do what is needed to survive: HUSTLE!
Wanton, lustful bodies in darkened shadows
Hiding from vice’s glaring light;
Here to pay for my tomorrows,
Fucking men in the Park, each night.
I know it’s morally wrong
But, this is my burden plight,
I’ve had to take to gay hustling;
The work is dirty but, the pay is right.
Married or straight, they have their need
For thick hard dick, an insatiable want;
If they’re willing to pay, to feed,
My naked long cock; I’m willing to flaunt.
In the end, there is no true winner;
I get the money I need with some regret,
They, the burden-guilt of the sinner;
Yet both into darkness, our paths are met.
Allan Ginsberg’s Howl, William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch and, Paul Goodman a novelist,playwriter and social activist; all advocates and adventurous men of original literary acclaim to the avant-garde, rebels in and of their time, garnering unsolicited reputation for challenging the buttressed and stalwart, civil-conservative institution of literature and civil-society at large; these great, inspirational authors and each provocatures of past little known, unfortunately, by many contemporary authors and public.
The ironic thread that strings these three men in particular, is not limited to their willingness to trash contemporary style, form and theme, the hallmarks of accepted and flourishing literature of their time but, their sexuality. Both Goodman and Burroughs were bi-sexual and Ginsberg, homosexual.
So what relevance does sexual-orientation have for their works being recognized as profound and revolutionary contributions to the literary realm given at times, the shocking crudeness and vulgarity of language describing in vile and gutteral detail, perceived deviant sexuality, heroin addiction and smoking of pot expressed in wildly random, convoluted style and form contrary to the conservative and conventional literary publications in and of their time?
Though to a considerably lesser extent today given current human and equal-rights legislative reforms; during the life-time of these men homosexuals and bisexual were heavily persecuted, deemed tarnished reprobate, sick people and legally classified as mentally ill and, subject to arrest if caught or reported performing sexual acts with other men often relegated to secrecy and cover of darkness.
It is no wonder given the harshness of the social environment imposed on these men and others of their era, would resort to free-form expression to expunge the hatred and hostility they all were grudgingly obliged to endure.
Prospecting the future
With hindsight gaze
Perplexed by the outcome
Of unknown days
Wealth to the measure
Surprised by the scheme
Replenishing the treasure
With yet realized dreams
Love is the passion to the cause
Uncertain to the reason
Defying rational(e) laws
Of day-dreaming dream’n
You were once the source of my dreams
The one for whom my love screamed
That short romantic time we did share
When together, nothing else seemed to care
A forgotten picture of you while asleep
Painful reminder to love that ran deep
Renewed thoughts of what you meant to me
That until now was becoming a fading memory
Putting away that faded photograph
I’m not sure whether to cry or laugh
It’s not likely we will ever again meet
Unless by chance, on fortune’s street
Viewing old pictures of my brother next to me
He appears the more masculine in nature
The difference is not hard to see
This quirk of genetic unfolding
A hidden clue for differences to our journey path
He the wiser chosen; accomplishments all showing
I the sufferer, to all life’s potential wrath
This is not a sobbing tale of sibling rivalry
Nor a sorrowful cry of `oh wow-is-me’
But a case for simple human discovery
Of genetic unfolding of one’s life to be
Cosmic conscious’ wave cascading, rippling through universal mind of One affecting the transcendence of effable energy force to the enigmatic presence of Being, cellular morphing thought-mind genesis creation of All emanating as fractal reality, programmed dissolution of Body, sole Soul reason to experience tactile, sensory presence of cosmic conscious’ wave cascading, rippling……
Porn magazine display spills painted undressed flesh enhanced to virtue by pushing latent sexual wanton voyeuristic expression subconsciously infusing unattainable immediate demand for physical exploitation upon the distracted unassuming encounter of like-vision frustration imposing inexplicable desire for un-reciprocated caress by spontaneous orgasmic fulfillment.
Sex-search classifieds of men, boys seeking love
Love not purely of the emotional kind
Their word’s read of innocence and naivety
To brutal harshness of a calcified heart
That masks singular loneliness imposed by orientation
Driving their pursuance to anonymous exploitation
Motivated by need of purging sexual frustration
Fueling willingness for graphic display of wares to want
Ensuring debasement of integrity and mutual respect
Disregarding expense to potential future relationship promise
He looked into my eyes, through to my want of soul
He knew I desired him but at what cost, what toll?
His beauty of youth so obvious, not to be denied
But morality’s grasp did, our chance to love, belie
Age, the discriminator to each living life
Through its passage, experienced, is much emotional strife
It need not be this way, it makes no common sense
For often and, most certain, it’s to our own expense
We struggle to retain our vibrancy of youth
But each reflective glance, garners the harsher of truth
As each year moves closer toward an unavoidable, death end
It leaves the want to be old and living , harder to defend
Beauty, it’s said, is bestowed to the eye of the beholder
But not if such beauty is found of one young by one older
Attraction should not be defined by the measure of time’s passage
But by the degree loving hearts become emotionally ravaged
To look into the wanting eyes of one’s youthful admirer
Full of innocence and want to fulfill a yearning desire
Ignorant to the morality of adult guilt self impose
Blind to the consequence that yields such advances forever closed.
naykdpoet 