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#effeminate
There was an elegant ***** from New York City Or maybe Rome or New Orleans. He was a spectacular *** but didn't do drag at all; Falling somewhere in between that category Of glorious ladies and men of the day. A queen with no throne nor entourage scene, Camouflaging himself in skin-tight trousers, Spectacular coats and jackets, Packets of sachet in his pockets To give him a scent of an unusual gent. As if he had a choice in the matter. He had a delicate way with his manner, His hands and his eyes touching gracefully As if not to disturb the dust on the mind, Often very unkind, he used his tongue slicing And dicing those who offended his senses When such dared to step on his train Invisibly dragging behind him, around him Keeping his visitors at bay, a few feet away Like proper subjects, courtiers to his grace His face locked in a grin; hiding all within The secrets protected by laden witticisms Criticisms if you misbehave, saving smiles; Handing out compliments like cookies. There was always a waving of hands, The arms caught in the wind like cornstalks. For a moment. Then catching, ending like feathers Settling together, resting as if cradling a baby One hip thrown out, the head to one side As if listening; hearing a devil's good joke, Smoking a constant cigarette, the ends never wet Laying the tip on the lip like a kiss His face slightly lifted so the smoke will drift Away from his half-lidded cynical eyes. The talk could be varied, of Tom, **** or Harry He would call women men and vice versa Saying, Robert is a ***** woman is she. He then waiting your laughter, hesitating Seldom laughing himself, having said it all Heard it all, done it all, had them all No fertile male soil left unspoiled by his touch Just entirely too much for one man to handle, No woman to compare, he lived alone somewhere Coming to the bars each night, a familiar sight Drinking, but not seeming drunk, Never sunk so low that he staggered, Still swaggered after hours at the trough Not so much as a slur or a cough. He knew all the jokes that could be made From a seemingly innocent mistake Taking a word here and there and trading Raising a regal eyebrow, somehow changing Restating the meaning leaning it toward the crotch Watching the listener's face, sensing the disgrace; Granting himself the luxury of the infrequent howl His majesty could keen like an un-oiled machine Setting his victim's nerves and gooseflesh to snap Giving his udderless chest a slap, he would go on Make more of the jest, leave his victim no rest And the mourners to offer their apologies. Words such as that are not for ladies Such as this infamous old queen. The old spirit held on after the body was near gone Propelling it nightly to appear on the scene. Mean children would taunt him, just as he taught them And waving their arms like cornstalks, cackle like hens And tease him again, then resume cruising the men Hurting the once regal spirit more with their disdain Than beating him, or cheating him; ignoring him, They dealt him a blow he never could abide That fear he kept inside, all those years, the tears, Still left un-cried, after he died, in his room somewhere. He has left to be shared, the way he fluffed his hair, The off-color joke, spoken in a strange lady's voice Something like a boy's, not like a man's; That flutter of the hands and the stance Still copied today, by the splinter-group gays That straight people think we all are Is all that remains of a star once seen; The seldom lamented, well-imitated, eternal queen.
0
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
ETERNAL QUEEN
There was an elegant ***** from New York City Or maybe Rome or New Orleans. He was a spectacular *** but didn't do drag at all; Falling somewhere in between that category Of glorious ladies and men of the day. A queen with no throne nor entourage scene, Camouflaging himself in skin-tight trousers, Spectacular coats and jackets, Packets of sachet in his pockets To give him a scent of an unusual gent. As if he had a choice in the matter. He had a delicate way with his manner, His hands and his eyes touching gracefully As if not to disturb the dust on the mind, Often very unkind, he used his tongue slicing And dicing those who offended his senses When such dared to step on his train Invisibly dragging behind him, around him Keeping his visitors at bay, a few feet away Like proper subjects, courtiers to his grace His face locked in a grin; hiding all within The secrets protected by laden witticisms Criticisms if you misbehave, saving smiles; Handing out compliments like cookies. There was always a waving of hands, The arms caught in the wind like cornstalks. For a moment. Then catching, ending like feathers Settling together, resting as if cradling a baby One hip thrown out, the head to one side As if listening; hearing a devil's good joke, Smoking a constant cigarette, the ends never wet Laying the tip on the lip like a kiss His face slightly lifted so the smoke will drift Away from his half-lidded cynical eyes. The talk could be varied, of Tom, **** or Harry He would call women men and vice versa Saying, Robert is a ***** woman is she. He then waiting your laughter, hesitating Seldom laughing himself, having said it all Heard it all, done it all, had them all No fertile male soil left unspoiled by his touch Just entirely too much for one man to handle, No woman to compare, he lived alone somewhere Coming to the bars each night, a familiar sight Drinking, but not seeming drunk, Never sunk so low that he staggered, Still swaggered after hours at the trough Not so much as a slur or a cough. He knew all the jokes that could be made From a seemingly innocent mistake Taking a word here and there and trading Raising a regal eyebrow, somehow changing Restating the meaning leaning it toward the crotch Watching the listener's face, sensing the disgrace; Granting himself the luxury of the infrequent howl His majesty could keen like an un-oiled machine Setting his victim's nerves and gooseflesh to snap Giving his udderless chest a slap, he would go on Make more of the jest, leave his victim no rest And the mourners to offer their apologies. Words such as that are not for ladies Such as this infamous old queen. The old spirit held on after the body was near gone Propelling it nightly to appear on the scene. Mean children would taunt him, just as he taught them And waving their arms like cornstalks, cackle like hens And tease him again, then resume cruising the men Hurting the once regal spirit more with their disdain Than beating him, or cheating him; ignoring him, They dealt him a blow he never could abide That fear he kept inside, all those years, the tears, Still left un-cried, after he died, in his room somewhere. He has left to be shared, the way he fluffed his hair, The off-color joke, spoken in a strange lady's voice Something like a boy's, not like a man's; That flutter of the hands and the stance Still copied today, by the splinter-group gays That straight people think we all are Is all that remains of a star once seen; The seldom lamented, well-imitated, eternal queen.
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