shane allison – 3 poems

Starter Kit Drag Queen

Sassy left one of her dresses in my car again.
Always happens when she's had too many vodka red bulls. 
Carl cut her off,
Told the bartenders she isn't to be served
Until she's done hosting the show. 
Sassy stumbles and slurs her words on stage.
When I notice make-up smudges on my upholstery,
Sequins in the passenger seat, who else could it be?
I take her dress, her wigs and gaudy fake jewelry 
From the backseat, and slip it into the house,
Lie it all on the bed like a piece of trade I've picked up from the bar. 
I take a few drinks from leftover bottled water
To flush out the shots and well booze.
I'm not as drunk as Sassy tonight. 
I hold up the cotton polyester blend 
With its yellow ruffled sleeves that are reminiscent of arm floats.
The jewelry and sandy blond wig is a tangled mess. 
I pull down the zipper pushing one leg in and then another.
Sassy can't hurt me.
There are things worse than her out here in the sticks.
The cotton polyester is soft against my butt and back.
I hook the yellow ruffled arm floats over round shoulders, 
Laughing at the look of this dress on me.
A veil of silk shades patches of chest hair.
I gently place the ratty wig on my head,
Adjusting it accordingly over my ears.
I finger-comb it out a bit. Yeah, that's it.
All I need now are the heels 
I saw her carrying in her hand 
As she stumbled toward the door of the trailer 
She shares with her mother and brothers 
Who don't approve of her kind of entertainment.
I pull out my phone to take a few shots,
Posing in poses to post on Facebook 
And tag to mutual friends
Where Sassy will surely see them
Once the hangover has worn off. 


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For My Mother Who Asks, “Why is Your Stomach so Big?”

My belly is my hurt locker
Where I hold years of pain,
And the kind of anger that destroys
Towns like a Tennessee tornado and there are no survivors.
No matter how many pushups I do,
I will never burn off this bitterness.
Every stretch mark is a daisy chain of memories.
This one tells the story of the day dad beat me
Because I embarrassed him 
In front of his former high school football coach
For not dressing out in gym.
This one tells of the day he went to prison for a year
And we had to rustle up dinner by standing in line at food banks.
This one that trails down to my thigh
Tells of the look you gave me
When that mall cop told you
I was being arrested for indecent exposure.
These stretch marks mark the night
You told me you would rather be dead 
Than have a gay son. Do you remember?
I was only nineteen and not as sweet.
This one that leads down to my belly button
Is the day dad called me a sissy.
I heard him outside the bathroom window.
So in case you're wondering what happened to me,
Why I won't be the son you want me to be,
It's not due to fried chicken or pork chop sandwiches,
Or late night snacks of raisin creme pies
Or nutty buddies,
But a rage unlike anything you will ever know, Mother.



SHANE ALLISON was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish four chapbooks of poetry Black Fag, Ceiling of Mirrors, Cock and Balls, I Want to Fuck a Redneck, Remembered Men and Live Nude Guys,  as well as four  full-length poetry collections, I Remember (Future Tense Books), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori Press), Sweet Sweat ( Hysterical Books), and most recently I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire Press). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica, and has written two novels, You're the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon and Schuster Publishing). 

Shane’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo, Unlikely Stories, Pnpplzine.com, Palavar Arts Magazine, the Southeast Review,  South Broadway Review, Postscript Magazine and a plethora of others. Allison is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.


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