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I'm at the San Francisco Fringe
Festival--onstage. Our crazy play is set
on a round mound, founted, rocked
and pooled. Patrons ring the hump, yet
no playgoer sees all--it bulges so!
Each sees some unique scenario
whose crags occlude as much as frame.
(Of course, that's only true in dream.)
We call it "performance orgy". I play twin roles
both nude; though I'm at ease with that.
In one, I'm a talking leopard. Yes, nude: I don
no false felinity! Shift bones, grow coat of cat
dappled in rosette. I keep two human pets
I love. This role's fun, but hard--no, not
the metamorphosis, nor sex onstage, nor kink
of being a skinny (I love human girls, with their
ever-eager slits that peer from haunches bare,
brazen as Manx. And such well-spoken pets)
--it's mastering my lines! Precise alone wins praise
from our anal playwright. And leopards paraphrase.
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My other part's a man, collared and leashed:
a panther-girl's boytoy. As roles go, easier--
less lines to memorize. A phallic odalisque,
I need only sprawl, slink terraces and purr
languid on the rocks, and follow her.
Panthera's the one must flaunt a long sly tale--
the Cat Soliloquy. "How sweet to leash a man
and lead him round acrawl. A little pussy's all
it takes" she purrs. Then demonstrates how I
enhuge with just a single leopard lick (and that
takes no Method--she's so soft and hot) "and then
he'll do aaaaanything I want... including me."
Wake from dream before I come,
but oh! the Fringe was tingly fun.
To act, not watch, is better
whether you give or get--
whether a kinky petter
or perverted pet.
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