The Man That Does Not Have A Second of Privacy (Alfonso)


Winston Smith comes to mind here
But this chap is a plain man, a poet in his wanderings
A man of science in badge, lurking through
An incarceration, when everything is magnified
By the lens of punity. He knows sitting in a commode
Is punishment, when you enjoy those skinless
Sausages go pass the sausage maker,
And you are sent shudders inside.
At every filament of gay you’re not, and petrification
That you may be enjoying a little bockwurst pass.
And when you watch porn you are petrified
Of the pop-ups that come with regular occurrence
Knowing that Big Brother controls what you watch
Or what you intentionally avoid.
You can’t think of any man – call him Alfonso –
Without thinking of a sexual thought
Feigned by the fear inside of you, the type
That gets implanted by Big Brother and his mob
Of Gay-Conversion Therapists and their adamant
Obscene ways of trying to make someone
The sunshine of California. And your dad is Alfonso,
When he sits in his sarong with his feet apart, your uncle’s voice
Is Alfonso when he shouts weird things over the wall
And any stranger is Alfonso, when you see him
Enjoying an invisible blow job and you’re
Just the man who is milking the bull.
And when you know you’re under constant
Surveillance by a tyranny that doesn’t trust
Your sexuality, you inevtably become a salad, a fruit salad
In thought, after all, no one man can ever
Select or choose his thoughts – they are like falling monsoons
Of all the things Alfonso. And the many fruits
In there, are not Apples, like a Cezanne painting,
They are just fictional episodes of how a megalomaniac
Manipulates the fragility of the human mind.
And you look for the day, you can be heterosexual
In body, mind and act, knowing the mind
Will always be open to the fictitious, the mind-reading
Technologies, the sunshine in Sacramento, the picnic in Mars,
Alfonso behind you. Still the heterosexual lives
Large everywhere but the mind, conquering a woman’s body
With great conviction and passion, knowing
No gay conversion therapy can ever replace
The seeds of lust inside. The seed that bore the fruits of wanting
A gender that has so much insulation around, that the resistance
To heat flow makes her a fireplace with cinder
Burning the tinder of your body. Alfonso
Will be always the man with the moon. A far away
Object that drops moonbeams to the mind
But is as redundant and impractical as
A urinal in a woman’s toilette. And Alfonso, will come
And go, as long as technology infiltrates,
And the schizophrenic, for convenience sake, what
They love to call me, will spend the rest of his days
Gazing at Kim Kardashian and his sisters
Admiring moons as large as God lets them be
And thinking that saggy anorexic place
That Alfonso sits on, will always be an idiot’s choice.
Man and his sexuality will always be inseparable.
Only fools tinker with nature
Knowing Alfonso, is a little ghost
With two butts – one short and one flat –
Who likes to play a game of “astronaut” or “space cowboy”
To land the man on the moon.

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