“He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.” -Christopher Marlowe, The Tragedy of Dr. Faustus
Fresh starched cotton shirt buttons to the neck
Where touches of blood and vomit add some zest
To a look that’s sharpened nearly to a wreck
By slicked-back hair and crooked, yellowing
Ironed pants that complement wingtip shoes
That bark! bark! bark! with every step
Squeeze too tightly around a booze-bloated waist
With seams that stretch and stretch until they
We are a living mockery of our own ideals
Someone somewhere far away said best
In a land of decaying identities
In a time of drag-fueled anarchy.
I offer, then, this outfit to you, dear father
To Ridiculousness–no, Trash!–and to
reject all of the rest.