Person is Not a Rude Word

Thought it was time to add to the Proems posts category…. so here are two pieces of writing that go back (eeK! nearly 20 yrs…) to the early-to-mid-Nineties when I was composing performable prose poetry.

Hopefully, like the entries in the Retro Diary Enquiry, these chosen pieces give some clues to the elusive status of my triple AAA nature: Andro, Asexual, Aspergic – and to the why of it taking 40+ years to ‘earn’ my triple AAA badge in the great twisting-and-turning-and-toilsome classroom of life…

[OcH! Let’s blame it all on the stars and some sadly-lacking horoscopes!]

Celestial Influence

In the star-charmed incarnation you can be
born under the crab sign with the lion in ascendant;
Cancer v. Leo: the tussle of a lifetime.
See the headlines:
WATER QUENCHES FIRE!
(I can cry, sink or swim.)
FIRE MAKES HOT AIR OF WATER
(I can let off steam.)

Cancer zodiak sign. Also at Unicode U+264B (♋). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Cancer has me moodsome and sensitive,
tears coming easily – unless Leo
has them evaporated with rage.
Cancer would have me walk away sideways
from confrontation.
Leo knows only how to roar and bite off heads.
(That’s AKA “crabby”.)

Cancer can do the hermit bit,
retreating into its shell
(which is always cosy, well-decorated:
Cancer’s such a home-maker)
and switch on sentimental smooches
(Andy Williams’ Moon River or Home Lovin’ Man).

Leo Symbol (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Leo’s so outgoing;
All the World’s a Stage!
The would-be-could-be actor, dancer, singer,
springs from the wings!
Extravert entertains introvert.
Leo goes for mane-shaking with Hendrix –
or any paw-stomping rhythm which kicks…

Leo’s the closet poet, joker, yarn spinner,
‘til Cancer, world-saver, enters the arena
(started early saving playground bullies’ victims)
feeling the pain of the planet’s karma.
Tears of a clown syndrome rules, not OK.

Leo fancies itself a passionate lover.
Cancer is shy, wounded by past hurts,
but would still offer the nurturing breasts
Where Leo would tear some genitalia to shreds…

Cancer is soothed by tepid tide pools,
steaming baths, sound of waterfalls and waves,
yet shudders inside when clouds burst…
Leo is cheered by solar warmth,
and dust motes dancing on sun beams
but the brightness is too fierce
on the self torn apart…

Have you met my sparring partners?

…………………….

B is for Brian and Barbie

We called kids like Brian
‘weedy’ back then.
His home reeked of nappies,
His mum’s shepherd’s pies
And his sergeant-major father.
Brian was sort of dangly and limp.
Still we let him play dressing up with us.
Frankie and Gilly and me.
When we played David & Goliath
Brian was always the sheep
So he could wear my mum’s
Fake sheepskin coat turned inside out.
But sheep don’t wear earrings, Brian.

English: The Simpsons star in Hollywood Walk of Fame Español: Estrella de Los Simpson (The Simpsons) en el Paseo de la Fama de Hollywood. Deutsch: Simpsons-Stern auf dem Walk of Fame in Hollywood (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Frankie went to Pennsylvania.
Gilly’s mum died and she went to Ireland.
Brian went to the secondary mod.
(Mince on Tuesdays, singing on Fridays.)
I went strolling by in Dr Scholl’s
thinking if I was walking a dog
I’d be a catch for the boys.
Only Brian caught me.
Red and black tied limp and dangling.
‘Let’s go to Woolworth’s,’ says Brian,
‘nick a deep red stiff-upper-lipstick
and then play Cabaret, only
you be Maximillian this time
and I’ll be Liza Minelli!’
Do you think we should’ve known by then?

I got punk and went north
To kagoul-and-desert-boots-uni
(and figured I’d rather play
doctors and nurses with matrons).
Brian made the fare to go west
and get AWOL from Daddy.
He is the cabaret at TGI Fridays
(and shines at tea dances on Sundays).
Sometimes he’s Brian
when he’s not playing Barbie
in pert uplift falsies and
cruising soldiers (with dodgy BO)
eating sloppy joe’s in diners.
But does the mustache match the pink taffeta, B?

Now we play at pen pals
sending kitsch perky postcards to jazz up
my fridge and make fabulous his john.
Living out the Peter Pan lives
of middle-aged benders.
Brian sends photos of Pride ’95;
he’s gone as Marge Simpson
in a ‘blue wig for days’
With twelve-inch-high Homer,
Bart, Lisa and Maggie
rubber dolls tucked into her handbag.
Still carrying the family around with you then, Bri?

© Luc(e) Raesmith