Monday, July 13, 2009

Butching It Up

Butching It Up
—for Thom Gunn

I didn’t have to—tattoo my right arm
With any slogan like—“Born to Lose”
I was already a Loser—more than once
Born to be Bad—was good enough for me

In the silence—that prolongs Losers
I preferred greasers—like Elvis Presley
Ducktails and sneers—turned me on
Those were the ones—I wanted

Music, drive-in movies—Orange Crush
Popcorn, candy—a backseat quickie
Those were the Fifties—and Sixties
I checked the Box—got out of Nam

There was this guy—who drove me mad
He drove a ’57 Chevy—all souped up
On weekends—we dragged Main Street
Everybody knew—I was getting him off

He wore motorcycle boots—leather jackets
You could hear the leather—squeak softly
As he stretched out—in the backseat
With his beer & joint—my pneumatic lips

Doing him—during drive-in double features
Getting to know—the Creature Who Conquered
The World—and The Day the Earth Stood Still
There wasn’t enough—of him to satisfy me

Before him—there was nothing but boredom
After him—there was just more of the same
I fell for him every night—my heart a lead balloon
Loved his greasy Vitalis hair—his oily pubes

He stretched out like a cat—and yawned
The bitter smell of Coors—on his bad breath
He listened to movie—in the background
The present was his thing tho—and me

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