my head, tilted right-ways, sucks the lips off this harlequin
then again, my fingers, upon his scarf, and then the neck it bedecks,
and the shoulders, unseen, so my hands, in their game, are lost to all sense,
press out the old hope that no sun ever rises,
so that his god is mine, and my soul is his
(while knowing kisses are better when guys aren't so dissolved, and keep to the cantankerously, self-definitively queer)
such a picture is better than a blot on the night, even with a full-moon in the corner

I was going to say something but then I sort of threw up in my own mouth.