When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad,
so that my favorite past time switched from kissing boys,
girls, even the dirty unknowns
that lay black-out drunk on the streets,
to biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
That is, until my peers stopped the abuse.
I remember they almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would stroke my extra digit on the cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
Through that act, I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to that little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
lying all naked on the old chaise longue
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
NO, like a madman's razor,
so that when my grandmother died of a stroke that day,
I could not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all swollen,
only recall those last five words of hers:
"My bedroom smells of bacon".
What have I sacrificed
to receive this rainbow? At thirteen,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
NO, punched him to the ground -- with forty kisses more,
crying out, "Surely now I should run out the closet!
Surely now I should run out the closet!"
And here, God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
like a particolored bolt of lightning
onto my foreskin, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
Version 2.1:
The Birth of a Straight Man
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad,
so that my favorite past time switched from kissing boys,
girls, even the dirty unknowns
that lay black-out drunk on the streets,
to biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
That is, until my peers stopped the abuse.
I remember they almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would stroke my extra digit on the cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
Through that act, I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to that little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
lying all naked on the old chaise longue
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
NO, like a madman's razor,
so that when my grandmother died of a stroke that day,
I could not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all dreamless,
only recall those last five words of hers:
"My bedroom smells of bacon".
What have I sacrificed
to receive this rainbow? At thirteen,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
NO, punched him to the ground -- with forty kisses more,
crying out, "Surely now I should run out the closet!
Surely now I should run out the closet!"
And here, God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
like a particolored bolt of lightning
onto my foreskin, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
Version 2.0:
A STRAIGHT MAN
1
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad,
2
so that my favorite past time switched
from kissing boys,
girls, even the dirty unknowns
that lay black-out drunk on the streets,
to biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
3
That is, until my peers stopped the abuse.
I remember they almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would stroke my extra digit on the cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
4
Through that act, I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to that little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
lying all naked on the old chaise longue
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
NO, like a madman's razor,
5
so that when my grandmother died of a stroke that day,
I could not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all dreamless,
only recall those last five words of hers:
"My bedroom smells of bacon".
6
What have I sacrificed
to receive this rainbow? At thirteen,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia -- only philautia.
And yet I pushed him away,
NO, punched him to the ground
with forty kisses more, crying out
"Surely now I should run out the closet!
Surely now I should run out the closet!"
And here, God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
like a particolored bolt of lightning
onto my foreskin, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
version 1.1:
A STRAIGHT MAN, version 1.1
1
When I was younger, maybe five or six,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad.
2
When I was younger, maybe seven or eight,
my favorite past time was kissing boys,
girls, anyone I could get my lips on,
even the dirty unknown that lay motionless
outside our school. My second favorite
was biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
3
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
my peers stopped the abuse.
They almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would rub my extra digit on the cloth
while staring my reflection on the window
straight in the eye.
4
When I was younger, maybe eleven or twelve,
I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to the little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
that lied all Roman on the wooden seat
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
no, like a madman's razor.
5
When I was younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen,
God revealed the rainbow. First,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
no, punched him to the ground. Second,
my ailing mother died, her last words:
"My bedroom smells of bacon."
I did not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all swollen.
6
Only in my evening room did I weep
when I was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen,
figuring: "Surely now I should run out the closet!"
But then God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
and onto my prepuce, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
version 1.00:
A STRAIGHT MAN, version 1
1
When I was younger, maybe five or six,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad.
2
When I was younger, maybe seven or eight,
my favorite past time was kissing boys,
girls, anyone I could get my lips on,
even the dirty unknown that lay motionless
outside our school. My second favorite
was biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
3
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
my peers stopped with the teasing.
They almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they made for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would rub my extra digit to and fro
on the tearing cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
4
When I was younger, maybe eleven or twelve,
I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to the little red-haired girl
lying all Roman on the wooden seat
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
no, like a medium's razor.
5
When I was younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen,
God revealed the rainbow. First,
from a boy who in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
no, punched him to the ground. Second,
my ailing mother died, her last words:
"My bedroom smells of bacon."
I did not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all swollen.
6
Only in my evening room did I weep
when I was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen,
figuring: "Surely now I should run out the closet!"
But then God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
and onto my prepuce, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
version 0.667:
1
When I was younger, maybe five or six,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad.
2
When I was younger, maybe seven or eight,
my favorite past time was kissing boys,
girls, anyone I could get my lips on,
even the dirty unknown that lay motionless
outside our school. My second favorite
was biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
3
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
my peers stopped with the teasing.
They almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they made for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would rub my extra digit to and fro
on the tearing cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
4
When I was younger, maybe eleven or twelve,
I found God in his most populat form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to the little red-haired girl
lying all Roman on the wooden seat
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And from then on, I'd be obsessed.
5
When I was younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen,
my grandmother died. Her last words:
"I smell bacon". And from then on,
I'd be obsessed.
6
When I was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen,
I figured it was time to come
out of the closet
and into the evening room.
"What am I afraid of?" I thought. "Have I not
already stared death straight in the eye?"
But then I found God's true image,
Justice, carved into the ridges and furrows
of my prepuce, and I knew
that to lie to myself was to admit defeat.
Version 0:
1
When I was younger, maybe five or six,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad.
2
When I was younger, maybe seven or eight,
my favorite past time was kissing boys,
girls, anyone I could get my hands on,
even the dirty unknown that lied motionless
outside our school. My second favorite
was biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.
3
When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
my peers stopped with the teasing.
They almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they made for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate my victory
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would rub my thirteenth digit to and fro
on the tearing cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.
4
When I was younger, maybe eleven or twelve,
I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to the little red-haired girl
I saw lying all Roman on the wooden seat
by the fireplace. The dream
ended like this: as the rising sun
cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face,
she roasted like a suckling pig.
And from then on, I'd be obsessed.
5
When I was younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen,
my grandmother died. Her last words:
"I smell bacon". And from then on,
I'd be obsessed.
6
When I was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen,
I figured it was time to come
out of the closet
and into the evening room.
"What am I afraid of?" I thought. "Have I not
already stared death straight in the eye?"
But then I found God's true image,
Justice, carved into the ridges and furrows
of my prepuce, and I knew
that to lie to myself was to admit defeat.
