The straight man is convulsed with electricity,
And if in this day and age lobectomies could be conducted
The gay patrol would jump on the wagon.
Right before they convulse him
They look at him with apathy – straight
The type that makes love missionary
In an enclosure of visages, so unlike a wild animal,
Only bonobos make love face-to-face.
But there’s something beautiful about seeing
The face of a love one making love, it’s about
Knowing the soul mate gets to keep a gaze
At the lover maneuvering her hips
When the slightest glee or flotation of a smile
The sweat painted cheeks and the tongue
That tweaks out to taste the salty lips
Even the dew that stays, making her face
Moist and irresistible, all outflows of little editions.
And they wire him up and send electricity
To fry the straight centers. The breast lobe
Takes a large area of synaptic neurons
That makes Dolly Parton wish she did a Ph.D.
In space science and the anorexic models
That walk down runaways, flush with contentment
That they skipped out of school early.
And then the butt area is too rich
A collage of Kim Kardashian and all her sisters
A little peripheral to the breast area
Which only lights up when the gluteus maximus
Sits up dozens larger than a saggy coconut shell
Filled with hairy flesh.
And in the aftermath, they let him loose
To the walkways littered with symmetry,
Only to find out that he is still a skirt chaser,
A cleavage rat, a man glued to the Gluteus
Of a graceful gender, that makes all the doctors
Look at themselves in disgust, at the man
Who proved them all wrong.
Sexuality is as familiar to the owner
As the tip of his fingers are
Or the underside of his palms
Where all the life lines journey. It is not
A tyrant’s toy or a doctor’s lab rat
It is a man who know implicitly who he is
And these are the times of arm chair experts
With peanut intellects, ostracize
One man for his honesty, when everyone
Around him are compulsive liars.
And tyrants will keep on
Trying to make honest straight men gay
Just so that they can get rid of their
Napoleon complexes, being the shorter man
In stature. And the straight man will journey
His life being himself, after all those saggy
Like sacs at the bottom of his pelvis
Have enough ammo to make a little life
Inside the depths of a woman. What no gay
Man can ever venerate or give a tap
On his back for.
There’s something beautiful
About asymmetry, that love is 40-60 or 30-70. It is never
A perfect union of balance and give and take.
It’s this imperfection that makes a woman
Cry for a sloppy finish to her unwearing mouth
Or a man go on his knees kissing
From black stilettos to the wonders
Beneath a G-string – All in the name of love
And the beauty of asymmetry -. Straight is never 50-50.
It is man and woman, meeting
At a divide, of love and lust, knowing
All you do to enflame your soulmate
Makes you a little richer inside.
It is just a windfall of another’s flesh in tune
And you’re only the music maker
With a little agony all over your face.