Proudly – or proud at least in the attempt –
I called me once a slut, and present contempt
From my sealskin washes irrelevant.
What reason I had for the resonant
Dispersion of lusty fluid is gone;
What stands is that I stand here still upon,
My self-neglect an amber’d memory…
What think you of my vespid vestiture?
Were those even words? Are these but cheap clothes –
By a bargain bin rescued from landfill?
Aye. Indeed. More than a slut, a cheapskate!
But look, Sir, look: Nay, “Look,” I said – not “drool.”
Look how artful is my cartful of balls:
To pull this off. And this. And this. And this.
Yet am I politic’ly cheap? Am I…
A liberal bohemian libertine –
My bird to the house-flip’d, service-lip’d fags?
No, not that either, for oft I’ll swoon at
A succulent, sucker-punched Versace.
Haute Couture’s the bomb, I fear, and should you
Distress me for’t, I’ll despise not only
The folly but moreso, Bozo, the fool.
Be it frugal, frilly, famished, or phat –
I’ll take it. I’ll ruffle and awake it!
Cut, craft, cuddle, and get with it naked!
For that which I see when it beckons me
Doth polyesterize all silken labels.
If used, it be cheap; If current, genius;
Either or, what appeals be why I will it.
What’s a seam, but a pre-assembled line?
What’s a line, but a seeming rift in space –
Where light and a landscape around it bends?
This, dear man, is the science of my fashion:
A physics of cloth, a theory of thread,
Announced by a hip god’s intelligence.
‘Tis a gawking glove, a shocking shove,
The coqluv of an adorable coquette.
I ponder skin where others want pockets:
‘Tis far more fetching and fabulous, no?
Like my cumshot? (A phosphorescent paint,
For that extra trashy blow in the dark.)
Snicker if you will, or cheer: I care not.
My style be the ebb and flow of tides
Lapping the long beachhead of my body:
They cover and recede, smother and reveal,
As ever they did when fresh was my zeal.
If thou by this story be woo’d and awed,
Give tribute not to its dressings in verse.
For these be but the opposite fraud
Of bland clichés in pornography’s purse.
If thou art touched by this visage; this bod,
‘Tis for I’m fellow become a God,
My life – my religion – now sails abroad.
Its gospel is writ by Richard, Sir Wadd.