I didn't understand, like convincing me to spend an afternoon
tucked away amongst a moonlight moody matinee,
where the heterosexuals and I are in a minority,
and feeling the burn;
when the alternative of spending a day in similar dark,
head down forced down in a sickly-stench toilet,
seems the better offer. Is that clear?
Good to know.
And when I relent, thought my pockets are empty,
(I'm in college you forget!) and I cannot find a
cent, then how shall I get in?
And where shall we begin?
"Do not worry," you say, though your guise is cheap,
and I know you bought it second hand;
"it will be easy enough,"
though your eyes tend to wander
under your fire-hydrant fauna,
when the words you say don't hold a truth,
"to merely sneak in!"
Has your guise always worn such a stain?
And I say what? "Say what?" say I!
But you keep your ice-pack demeanour,
grab my hand from its hideout,
(though when told to the guys later it was under your blouse...)
and onwards towards our gift-shop destiny,
sold beside the King Tut Tutterware,
that I would say was tacky, but holy
shit, there's a bat cave here?
Where?
~~
And a girl in faux fag fatigues drags
an emaciated gargoyle of a lad past us in line,
through the tired ambiance of the Pre-Historic era,
(and I bite off comment,
as to how a Museum contains something,
that exists before history)
around the children who add a layer or two
of their own mucus to the fine gathering
upon the goldfish glass, wipe from finger
to forearm, and regard the glistening road
that runs along their pastel jackets,
pinks on boys, blues on girls,
and what an awkward time to be alive
and behold the world falling apart.
Onwards they shove, and disappear into
the blacky-blackness of the bat cave,
that upon the closest inspection
can only be described as...well, black!
"That's where all the bad girls drag their boys,"
I hear you say. It must be something
'bout foolin' 'round on their steady boys,
the well-meaning Agape who sits in well-meaning hallways,
waiting, in a well-meaning manner, for what else can they do?
for you -
"It gets 'em off like nobodies business," you say,
as adjusted shirts and smoothed wrinkle free
skirts emerge, black boots intact,
with a smudge here, and a tousled hair cut there
and a glance at the floor,
before a run for the door,
And they're gone. You owe me five bucks.
"Well, maybe it's the midnight caretaker's business," I remark.
Pppfff...no laugh.