The Gay Resort

He's a flagrancy of bullyboy heat,
surface combustion and light, brazier fuel;
dogging the footsteps
the flashpoint of longing
he peppers his toes with Fire Island ash.

A crackle furthering from dust-dry lips
and we are all pyre-heathens;
the smelter sun is rubbing
its arson on peeling buttocks.

In waywardness we become furnace-nibblers,
the discotheque is sweat and blood.
Our vacation's nearly out of gas
and every whitecap floats
an ark, tight with sizzlers,
men of Ra with blowtorch smiles
keeping the whoopee hot.

copyright 2005 Christopher Barnes
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