travels through a gay minefield
One night only.
Nasty, filthy verbal fun with co-dependent emotionally
barren, internet porn obsessed twisted bear pig expertly
abridging maleness and masculinity, cardboard cut out
constructions at an Eagle or Ramrod near you.
Perched in masculine drag such pretty butch outfits.
Hiking boots soiled with heavy trek all the way car to bar.
Visual referencing of too similar an affect worn, owned
by bigot oppressors, the price paid for obsessive focus
of soul crushing appropriation.
Seeking out a fine line of difference.
We covet, we loathe, we love it, agonizing, lusting,
fetishizing it, all the while blithely, bitterly despising it
hating to own it, fuck it, use it, consume it, be it … all.
A longing for courage, the fine line of difference that
shutters beyond the midnight hour when masks are shed
and what remains is never contrived, a sometimes resonant
flicker to realization within, expressed beyond those skin
Skin does not confine to role, too easily convenient
top / bottom, sub / dom constructions where real skin is
authentically loathe to ingrain those, yet what is sought,
that thing moving beyond margins; questions of long
enshrined narratives; penetration has a polarity, an
engulfment to embodiment.
The fine line of difference.
True skin knows it, can call it direct, manifesting strong
assured comfort, evident in carriage, evident in gut.
Archetype present, requisite balls intact, needing
never a reference.
Photo credit: Author. Image: A G Rae