To celebrate the publication of his book, My Life As Adam, the eminently talented Bryan Borland hosted a poetry contest with fag haggotry as the central subject. This is my entry, which didn’t win, and it’s easy to see why once you read the winning submission along with the other mundo excellent submissions.
Taut asses, slick hairstyles, fine cut of cloth.
They all are men with stiff pricks all around.
Mine is the exception that lays limp
until a short skirt passes along the window.
Tight crotches, gleam cut goatees, trendy skids.
They all are my friends all secure in homogeneity.
Mine is the exception, sui generis
until the short skirt enters the building.
She sidles next to me,
twirls on the barstool,
and orders a sausage
with her lager.
I lean in to tell her
she’s in the wrong place
The sausages here are good, she winks.
I wouldn’t know, I shrug.
Enter the deepening night’s mandatory awkward moment.
Everyone is lost inside their sex,
into ears and mouths.
Some liquor, a milky translucence,
bleeds down a chin,
to be brushed away
by a devil red tongue.
So, I say as she says, So.
Our laughter twists and twines,
the nervous moment shattered.
The room brightens.
I take you don’t graze with the herd, she smiles.
I’m like the sheepdog, I fumble, always-
-nipping at ankles, she finishes.
I can’t contain my giggles.
You could say that, I splutter.
So you came stag, she says. It was not a question.
The hubbub has raised,
The revelry hearkening
to the witching hour’s toll.
Passions are inflamed.
Voices chase ears, shouted.
In a soft corner there are moans,
and at the door a dispute groans.
The liquor light is sexy keen.
In more ways than one, I answer.
I’m the resident fag hag, she giggles.
Surprised our paths haven’t crossed.
We suck at our drinks in pleasant silence.
She raises her hand. I’m Charlie.
My dad always wanted a boy.
I take her hand.
I’m Charlie too, I say.
My dad always wanted a girl named Charlie.
A choked laugh: the bartender glares at her, wiping her beer from his shirt.
A transmigration has taken place,
the room growing larger and larger
as the decadent go off
in knotted pairs and staggered steps
Towards nightshroud sleeping chambers
or further depots of sin under the moon’s falling eye
where urges are wetly satisfied
or forgotten before the new day.
Bye, Charlie! Later, Charlie! Yowza, Charlie!
These, shouted across the way,
amuses us to no end.
Which Charlie, I quip!
With the odd couple nestled in booths
providing the white noise,
that old nervousness seeps in again.
Her almondite eyes glitter
in the twilight of last call.
She takes my hand, her lips forming a heart.