The Bathhouse

The Bathhouse

poem describing a visit to a gay bath house.


Imagine gliding figures through a dark lit maze;

Silent searching faces, all wearing the same deafening gaze.


Here amid the stale damp air,

a singular force churns.

The rhythmic moans and groans,

of men who have ceased to care.


Imagine dark passages, lined with many doors.

Some closed, some open, with gracious hosts waiting on all fours.


Here, the wanted and unwanted,

the givers, takers,

lonely, and the lovers.

Come to fuck, and be fucked.


Imagine stacked beds, chains and cages.

Lovers pounding away, at the longing of silent watchers.


Here, a man lies suspended,

ready, and waiting.

Holes  in the wall for sucking.

Thirsty worshipers, come kneel and be sated.


Imagine a winding spiral, up, up the throbbing scepter of man.

Up to a bounty of feces, sweat, urine and milk; drinkif you can.


Here, come, just take my hand.

Do not fear,

We are, but cogs to a gear.

Freed slaves; to the whim, of a gland.


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