<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=559038" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In St. Louis the boys</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In St. Louis the boys<br>Gather at night to pause<br>Beneath a cloud<br>To count the industry<br>Of circumcision<br>Driven by the memories<br>Of needles of the moment<br>Their bodies clothed in<br>Rough beauty that sleeps<br>In the breast of comrades<br>Who ache for Walt Whitman<br>Who ache between the river<br>And the sexual Satyr<br>Among the billboards<br>That howls to be heard<br>Like the taste of the<br>Nude Mississippi<br>That groan at the<br>Shore of St. Louis.<br>The boys, yes the boys<br>Darker then swamp water<br>The boys with pricks <br>The size of a long finger<br>They huddle at the corner of the river<br>Where the word faggot was drowned<br>And the blaze of the burnt color water<br>Decompose its rich<br>Stores of dying things.<br>In the wardrobe of a solitary man<br>Whose tongue is caked with<br>River mud and enemies<br>Of the desires that reaches<br>Out as branches<br>To pierce the pillow<br>Is to be found the secrets<br>That he keep in his back pocket.<br>The boys who stoned to death tomorrow<br>By his faith that foul<br>The silent sleepless<br>Motion of the water<br>The boys are swimming<br>The classical river<br>They celebrate the edge<br>Of the river with the words<br>Father of the waters<br>That celebrates nothing human.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+E.+Patton">David E. Patton</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=559038" data-title="In St. Louis the boys de David E. Patton" data-description="In St. Louis the boys Gather at night to pause Beneath a cloud To count the industry Of circumcision Driven by the memories Of needles of the moment Their bodies clothed in Rough beauty that sleeps In the breast of comrades Who ache for Walt Whitm..."></div> </div> </div>

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