The Urban Elf

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I give you fetish poetry inspired by The Plain White T's.


Swept away like Ganymede
To fulfill his always growing need
To luxuriate in daddy love
All else I was far above
With him is where I did belong
Until the chorus ends the song
And I fall back like Lucifer
A fallen star that angels curse
The sole thing that is left to me
Is the pungent memory
Of how I served him selflessly
And how he called me tenderly
His beautiful and hungry joy
His ever faithful special boy
And that’s the place I always go
When darkness comes and I’m alone
Into a space safe and confined
Where I am his more than I'm mine
That sacred secret memory
Of what his strong arms meant to me
And how the world has grown so cold
Since he ruled I’d grown too old

Dear Check and/or Balance,

If no one is held accountable the crimes of the Bush administration will not just go away with the departing President. They will instead lie festering within our history until they are eventually used as precedent to justify the overreaching and possibly even more contemptuous actions of another power hungry administration. Please, do not pass this time bomb of corruption and potential despotism to our children and grandchildren. They will already have their hands more than full with the ravaged environment, crumbling infrastructure and enormous debt we have arranged to leave them. So stand up. Grow a spine. Put on your big people pants and your outside voice. Do it for the children.

Thank you and have a nice day.

Since You Left Me

Looking ‘round the bar I see
No one left that appeals to me
I’ve played this game before
Maybe I’ll play it ever ever more
Nothing left
Left for me to do
But go to bed and never dream of you
This is what my life seems to be
Since you left me
So I’m drunk and I can’t drive
But I’m feeling happy that I’m alive
And that’s what God made taxies for

Did you think I’d die ‘cause you were gone?
Well you were wrong
You were so wrong
I’m going places you can’t see
Since you left me

I’ve cleaned the house
And moved on out
Getting rid of all the stuff
You couldn’t bother to take
What was I supposed to make
A shrine of what you left behind?
What goes through your mind?
That guy may not be cute as you
But I bet I’d never have to do
Half the crap you always asked me to
My vision's doubled
But I see fine

Did you think I’d die ‘cause you were gone?
Well you were wrong
You were so wrong
I’m going places you can’t see
Since you left me.

This one has his degree
From someplace smothered in ivy
That one has a package bigger
Than UPS can deliver
Oh, and there’s the other guy
With the soulful soulful eyes
Who sings Barry White at karaoke
Not to mention the young one there
Who likes to run
His fingers through my hair
Or the bartender with the dangerous smile
I could make him happy for a while

Did you think I’d die ‘cause you were gone?
Well you were wrong
You were so wrong
I’m going places you can’t see
Since you left me

You make me laugh instead of cry
I’m so much better than your current guy
And the public agrees with me
What were you thinking
When you left me?

Did you think I’d die ‘cause you were gone?
Well you were wrong
You were so wrong
I’m going places you can’t see
Since you left me.
Since you left me
Since you left me
Not my fault
Since you left me

My gallivanting housemates recently returned from their latest jaunt – apparently a self designed hodgepodge of couples therapy, explosives training and irresponsible forestry techniques set in the rustic majesty of the mountainous southwest – with among other things a copy of the new David Sedaris book. The other night before turning out the light I read two of the shorter essays. OK, honest to God laugh out loud kind of stuff. Not just internet-ese LOL but drop the book to my lap, cover my face and cackle kind of funny. Sometimes I think it would be fun to be David Sedaris all whimsically maladjusted, overflowing with analyst’s couch eloquence and queer in a way so multi-faceted and complex that mere homosexuality is only its most obvious and comfortingly banal face. Then I realize, no, I have enough trouble with my own neuroses. I don't need to evolve out of my quiet little niche in the mostly functional amateur-medicated food chain and into the leviathan status of the psychosa regina majora. Then I think, after much reasoned consideration, it would be far more practical and much more fun to stalk him. Then I realize that such an endeavor would involve multiple airports, learning to speak French with a German accent to avoid raising suspicion, and a high likelihood of restraining orders being issued against me by any number of National Public Radio personalities. At this point I just shelve the whole thing and try to divert myself with considerations of configurations and construction methods for found object birdbaths or whether one can finance a cemetery plot.