One-Week Dean

You hombres’d like to know maybe or, rather, I’d like to tell you of a pale whoreboy by the Texaco, like the last chocolate – he’s long been travelling, he says, the capillaries of the nation.

Leather-Jacket-Right-On-Own-Skin type this fallen, fallen, three times fallen James Dean; jacket’s unzipped, door ajar & straight into his ivory (also, Marlboros for fireplace). … Continue reading