All the gym's a stage
And all the pale boys merely players;
Unconvincing ones, too.
At the theatre entrance
I part with pride
For a curious form of Vaudeville.
The maxims of inertia invert.
No longer are the masters
Of the ruling class.
To make up for their deficit,
They perform:
Cackle, strut, and prance disgustingly,
Strive insensitively to sound “street,”
To be street.
(Street actors.)
It must be black magic
To float over concrete,
To steer balls
Into circles.
Audience: the girls and I,
But especially
The dark magicians themselves,
Who either sponsor their imitators,
Or disapprove and sneer.
Cheated of my cash again,
I hurry backstage
And recognize the actors
Without their costumes,
Sporting familiarity: Hollister, Jansport, Abercrombie.
The bell rings; they exit;
The shoe polish
Washes off their faces;
They morph
Into rich white boys
Once more.
Dirty,
greasy,
I smell like fried chicken.
Sweat is trickling,
Stinking.
It got me thinking!!!!
I need to wash
my birthday suit,
Body wash by Hollister*
Newport Beach,
Smells of a musky fruit.
awesome scent, kinda sweet,
I start at my feet.
Scrub away the repulsive smell
relax away the painful swell..
Scrub thy legs, all of them
cleanliness is key.
the soap suds wash away,
there is a bruise on my knee!
I continue on to my abdomen
rippled, tough,
strong, rough.
the scrubbing reddens my ivory skin.
To my hairy chest,
the matted mess,
upward, I scrub my neck.
Wash my hair,
conditioning with care,
time to shave my face.
Pick up my razor blade,
my daily strokes of grace.
I rinse the sudsy residue,
watch it spiral down the drain.
I look in the mirror at my birthday suit,
confidence in vein.....
Jared Pickett
9/11/09
Asavvy1