The Straight Man (Partly Erotica)

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.



The dog that chases her tail
Never to find a little fluffy growth

Stephen Hawkins who will predict aliens
In far-away planets, never to see life
In the strangest of galaxies

The shy girl, the virgin with glasses
Who can never can really melt
The stitching of a lonely heart

The potential that you can feel beneth the skin
The anger that can never be lulled

The man on the bathroom mirror
That can never outgrow his reflection

The bud that never becomes a flower
The bridesmaid who dreams of a lacy white dress
And the white dress that dreams
Of a corset filled body

The heart that excavates history
To dream of the one that never was
Going through an old shoe box

The many ifs that get buried
In if-nots and vise-versa

Love that breaks open her cocoon
To flutter lusty wings

Time that outlives dreams
The mileposts that never see milestones

The prince with the glass slipper
Who never finds Cinderella

The never-ending stories of hope
And the quicksands of rejection

The perfect circle that epitomizes life
In the circumnavigations of time

The lotteries that were never bought
And the treasures that are never found

The ampersand and hyphens
In cupid’s arrowheads

The “if only” that stares back
And the” if nots”, that cryopreserve

The many possibilities vulnerable to chance
And the jigsaw puzzles that are never filled

The glass ceilings that limit us
And the white flags that annul us

The many colors of the unknown
That paint beautiful horizons near by

The skipping ropes that fall like nooses
And the marbles lost down skull orifices

The missing coordinates of your life story
Meeting your aura every lapsed second

And a history that gets appended
Giving birth to constellations

In the vastest galaxy known to man.
– His own memory.

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.