The simple wickedness you take
in comments meant as jokes, Iím sure,
is like the muttís teeth teasing forth
the marrow from its bone,
leaving it brittle, and hollow, alone.
If you were svelte and handsome or
at least not larded up,
a fat and sarcastic bastard
with acid butter in your heart,
youíd make a sweet icon.
An inspiration to the queer.
But you, you take those comments and,
processing them, come out not
as Disco Boy. Receiving all
your motherís jibes about
gay guys in bogs, your fatherís animate
disgust and cries of axeman cometh at
men kissing on TV,
you emerge instead as Bitter Prick,
suspicious of the beautiful,
resenting Nouveau Queer
with all their tearful comings out
on YouTube and Facebook. You may
not be the best recruit
for Toxic Masculinity,
but itís your father nonetheless.
Though physically inept youíll score
at bigoted indifference, a grin
at Prideís rainbow parade. Calling out
You Wonít Survive. You Wonít Survive,
heathens. Try to sculpt a better self,
accepting of the loving touch and voice.
Because your orbitís not well-blessed by that
protective shell, the mocking of
sincerity. The handwritten label: SISSY.