Queer Theory
Old Jane Gallagher,
she was fine,
in that sun shining on an every-day-girl sort of way.
Giggling
as her checkers clacked and she stacked up her kings,
funny
how young women enter men’s senses and take over their hearts.
Young women
with fresh friendly faces, and smooth, soft skin,
basking in the glow
of adolescent light
during comfortable, warm, summer days,
embedding colloquial tones
into malleable brains of dreaming young men.
There, they reside in ideal perfection
with their skinny naked step fathers prancing around,
showing off hairy legs and sipping cheap booze
to numb exhibitionist tendencies.
Soft-shoeing on the men’s room floor
in your red, felt, hunting hat,
what do you think you’re doing?
Young man filled with illusions of sweet girls
sipping sun tea and playing games with neighbor boys.
That handsome sporty roommate
scraping off his five-o-clock shadow
is going to conquer your innocent princess
in the back seat of a darkened, parked car.
Go down and tell her, “Hello!”
Go on, don’t be shy!
She only bites at the peak of her lust.
Like you had a chance,
putting a half nelson on your sporty roommate,
your skinny arms couldn’t hold old Jane,
let alone, a broad shouldered stud
wearing your hound’s tooth jacket.
Poor skinny hipster should be writing about sexy Jane Gallagher,
not sexy men entertaining Jane’s periphery existence.
Better let some repulsive coincidence
take your mind off the intimacy you’ll be missing.
Your coming-of-age tale
will be watching an unkempt recluse
squeezing a large puss filled zit in the mirror.
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