Saturday, August 18

Armpit hair poem

Here's a funny little poem I wrote while in Austin. (draft)

There's something about armpits
and armpit hair.
In a normal day, I don't see
anybody's freshly shaven armpits
or their armpit hair.
To flash someone your armpits
is an act of aggression,
conscious or unconscious.
I'm not saying that armpits
should be heard and not seen.
No. Get your hands out of there.
This is not the third grade.
Neither am I saying that armpits
are nasty or stinky.
They smell the way God intended
and too many Americans
are coming dangerously close
to overdosing on deoderant.
Keep the chemicals away.
Far, far away.
But let's come back to the hair.
Women's armpit hair fascinates me.
I'm a man. I don't shave my armpits,
my chest or my crotch.
And I don't shave my legs, my back
or my butt either.
So why should you. Be free.
Let your fur flag fly. It's OK.
But still.
Armpit hair speaks cryptic couplets
that I can't quite decipher.
What are those hairs saying?
Is it
I'm an angry lesbian,
back the fuck up.
I'm a happy lesbian,
maybe next lifetime.
I'm bisexual and free
do you want to please me?
I'm a freaky European,
and I reject American morality.
I'm a hippy,
let's smoke a blunt.
My armpits are hairy
and so is the rest of me.

While sometimes freshly shaven armpits
look red and ashamed,
like they're being punished
just for being themselves,
just for being free and untamed
Women, ladies, please,
love your armpits, love your hair
But wax that mustache.

OK. This needs a lot of work. But it was fun to write.


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