Outward cries
sprinkled with constant sighes
Misconstrued by lies
wearing polyester and silk
ties
Ginsberg was right, I seem so serious. My life can be found in the table of contents in Time Magazine, o so serious. But am I angelic?
Removed of clothes, does my tie remain? Pergatoried, hysterical, naked, and...somewhat distracted?
Looking through the grave, I am distanced from the other tombs, far separated, almost detached by turbulent waves to the sing-song voices of America. Benign laughs of a disgruntled youth destined to be adulted: the abuse of abandonment.
I can't be near, my disgusting body is far too human to be placed by theirs. The perfect, stereo-typical, cloned vanity is not enough to get this faggot a tomb. This faggot, screamed, bashed, strangled and hopeless, doesn't get a eulogy? What would your Jesus Christ say?:
"It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve", that my wrist-limped figure has done the deed?
"What cock, pubic beards have graced his spirit?" they ask. "But that would be too human to think... that it shared affection, emotion, like us. Asexual thoughts are much more pleasant, yes. But he tried hard, he wore the tie, continued the lie, and refused the sigh. But he chose his path, and the deeds were his. Marriage is a joke, so why should he get a burial?"
I hope an Antigone-esque angel comes to my call.
I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel too, thanks for the advice Ginsberg
Micah Deterville
(California: March 14, 2009)
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