Thursday, October 28, 2010

Moustaches & Halloween

In honour of Movember, and the fact that aLookingGlass designed the t-shirts for the BVI event, I offer this poem about my only experience wearing a moustache. It also happens to be about Halloween.

UFO Lands on Bourbon Street

Without a single double take, we strolled
down Rue St. Ann the night of Halloween.
Your Cher was flawless, robed in sixties green—
a backless number stitched with flecks of gold.

My Sonny wore a vest of the same fur
as my moustache, attempting to conceal
my femininity. It was surreal
to see myself a him and you a her.

In the Quarter, though, we were hardly freaks.
Authentic vampires, freed from coffins, drank
red wine with a band of tipsy, toga-clad Greeks.
Curbside, Catwoman shared a joint with Frank-
enstein. Some rusted sutures stitched his cheeks.
A ghost floated by. Her entire look was blank.

Queen Amidala, Prince, and a fool held court
with Dr. J who’d clearly hit the sauce.
Above their heads, on iron balconies, played
some werewolves, witches, imps of every sort.
Jesus staggered by twice, one with a cross-
dressed Billie, sipping strange and fruity ade.

The aliens that descended should’ve guessed
they’d go unnoticed in the Vieux CarrĂ©.
They showed up practically as underdressed
as each employee of Ritz Cabaret.

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