a mustache of cosmic proportions
the mustache
lounging across my upper lip
like a saucy sasquatch
reclining on a beach chair
on the edge of the sea
of serendipity
is only an accessory
to my grooviness.
it is not an entity
in and of itself as
it is totally subjugated
to my will.
it goes where I tell it to go.
now, there are those
for whom the mustache
dominates the conversation,
becomes the focal point
of a lame existence,
and what a weak group
of limp-wristed hipsters
they must be
to find themselves
so easily over-ruled
by a few thin wisps of hair
perched beneath their nostrils
like weathered tinsel.
over the years,
my mustache has been described
as “transgressive,” “Sam Elliotian,”
often times, “discombobulated.”
and because of its
vaunted position,
the mustache receives
more massages than any
other mustache that has
ever existed with
the possible exception
of “Bucky,”
the churlish mustache
which once belonged to
the legendary John Holmes.
but I can write here
with all the humility
a man with the perfect
mustache can muster,
my mustache is larger
and thicker than John
Holmes’ sleazy caterpillar
ever was which is all
that women have ever
really cared about anyway.
I write this now,
an ode to the old
Warsaw Wazoo,
the mustache which
defended my health
through the entire
CoVid crisis.
I salute you even
as I refuse to
allow you to define
me any further
than as a subject
to one more epic poem.
Horror Sleaze Trash 