Slumber Party

This fucking cold train station drains
the pain
for the laurels of a better tomorrow.
I tried to connect
to a better apparatus
in the republic of bibles and loose belts
but you just danced
yourself
into the yellowish and orange hue
of my puke.
My vomit is content
in the burning sun
of the south side fears,
where the queers
keep asking my name and dick size.
I only find myself
to feed off
from the time
we danced
naked
on each other,
begging for the sun to stay down.
I’ll be on that train
by the time it peaks through
our black curtains.
Tonight dies
and dries
with my vomit stains
by your side.
My name is nowhere
and I’ve never measured my dick
but I will
for an extra buck and
a warm place to fuck.