Whit Fuller

For The “Pretty Boys”

pretty boys sleep on beds of roses
catching tongues between their teeth like fish on a line
scribbling words on their wrists and kissing with coffee stained lips
they have never tasted wine
or breathed smoke into a lovers mouth
their diet is solely words and cynicism
one kisses girls and the other is left to die
pretty boys drink holy water
right before their world falls apart
pretty boys are empty headed
falling asleep in each other’s arms
pretty boys are sacred creatures
god spares them no harm.

Queer Poet(x) : There are flowers everywhere and I have not lived 

I pick flowers for someone from the side of the road 
Yellow petals and brown centers
Looking on one another 
Like friends or parishioners to god 
Sun flowers 
I steal them a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet 
Think of their cabaret 
Dramatizations of everything 
It is bittersweet 
To see them in skirts or a dress
When neither of us would address 
The wrong boxes we’d spent twenty years living in 
‘Til now 
The poet will speak of this somehow 
He’ll think of them when he picks 
               sunflowers 
                  from roadsides
or steals 
                  a sip 
of whiskey on a cold night 
Him in a Sunday suit with hair dark 
                    and short lived 
Them in unquantifiable plumage with eyes bright 
                                   and nine-lived 
All effigies for something they have always been and 
         who they never were