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Date Posted: 00:09:29 06/18/01 Mon
Author: i mandrew san
Author Host/IP: 205.188.200.21
Subject: Bi

Bi

His cheeks,
hallowed from my lips
on his,
and, "oh boy,"
what’s this?
Not a peck,
not a hand shake,
but a lesson in tongue
wrangling.

Her thighs,
no surprise,
made me leap with
anticipation,
made me cover
her body
with my impression
of a sucker fish
in an aquarium.

So, you see
there is no secret,
no giant revelation.
When I was twelve,
I did delve into
what most of the boys
felt for that feminine grace…
but, when they weren’t
looking, I stared
entranced by their faces.

Now, here is me
being told
I must choose
one or the other.
Like the world
has room only for
the hetro
and homo
sexual
excursion

No room for me.
No room for the "switch hitter."
No room for the "butch" talker
who cherishes the rough love
that a stubbled face gives -
it leaves my face numb -
who admires the agile touch
that a curvaceous figure
can make me melt under -

Sex is louder
than any voice a dogma
can muster,
against it!

The gays
claim that I
haven’t left my closet,
yet.
Like I got stuck
on a hanger -
like I fear mainstream
rejection…
WELL, FUCK!
How much more
could I stray from the norm?

The hetero’s
think I’m following some fad.
Like it’s cool
to be called a fag
and still try flirting
with the girl who’s looking wide
eyed, like she want’s to say
"Honey, I understand,
let me be
your fag-hag."
What sort of fad
exists, where I seem to be
the only male in this
bent bill wannabe cowboy
farm town who
rides the bull
of both crowds?

I am just a bisexual
guitar player
who sings poetry at two am
with the neighbors banging on the wall
"I’M NOT FINISHED YET!"
but they don’t listen…

fuckit.

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