In the rubble of the brickbatted city
you will find
ghosts of hustlers
dead queerlust action
killed by cops, rich old men with silver hair, and or laboratory microbes
phantom fandom apparitions on streetcorners
waiting for the man
the man with the money, the man with the screwball eightball
the boys in their denim vines
dripping down their wiry wily bodies
dreaming of tomorrow
tomorrow that never comes
tomorrow that doesn’t belong to them
in my little white room
off the sunet strip
i can feel them drifting
spirits drifting
drfiting across my hopeless homeless apartment room
now i'm turning over in my grave
of dead sex machines
BJs for a tenner
as soon as my crazy friend began collecting SSI
blew it all on hustlers
blondes built like Frankenstein
The Incredible Hulk
and the ever popular Creature From The Back Hankie Lagoon
the ghosts of hustlers came to say hello last night
slamming doors
knocking over picture frames
throwing my beach towels on the floor
the only way I quieted them down
was by lighting a cigarette
and blowing
the smoke
in their pretty little ghost faces
