Man Suit PAMELA BENJAMIN

Pamela Benjamin Man Suit

I’m making a man suit. Bacon and bratwurst and BBQ tools weave and dangle –I can run a grill too. Fire and knives don’t scare all little girls, but men bunch the paper and piss lighter fluid because a woman’s place is in a bikini.

I’m making a man suit. Chain-mail cans I crushed after shot-gunning jangle and drip –I can hold my whisky too. You couldn’t see I was drunk, because men are allowed to drink and I am in costume.

I’m making a man suit. Beard and hat and three-day-ago shower make me invisible. I don’t have to be pretty anymore and I can still get a date. Brushing teeth is for suckers: deodorant bourgeois.

I’m making a man suit. Meaningless sex with non-people makes me important. Fuck them, they’re just bitches, my heart encased by feeling good at the time, I erase all phone numbers because commitment is for queers.

I’m making a man suit but don’t need your paper to do it. I don’t need your alimony, palimony, plastic to tailor this fit. You can’t pay for my tits. I am more than just my pussy, but you can’t see me without my man suit on.