Shane Allison may be contacted at: Starsissy42@hotmail.com

Matthew Shepard, a Gay University of Wyoming Student was Brutally Beaten, Tortured and Left Tied to a Fence for Eighteen Hours in Early October of 1998

Matthew Shepard
young gay youth
from Laramie Wyoming
beaten & tortured,

a young gay youth
tied to a fence
after being beaten & tortured
for eighteen hours

tied to a fence
by two hateful bastards
for eighteen hours
cut down in his prime

by two hateful bastards
he was a student at the University of Wyoming
cut down in his prime
who studied Political Science

as a student at the University of Wyoming
they left him for dead
the Political Science major
who was tied to a fence

and left for dead
in the winter's cold
when he was tied to die on a fence
where a cycler riding by, thought he was a scarecrow

in the winter's cold
a young gay youth hangs in the dead of winter
where a cycler rides by thinking he's a scarecrow
in a field flooded with blood

 

Kissing

I kissed you while you were asleep
dreaming of breasts like cereal bowls.

Because of you, I knew I would
love men forever.

Even though we fought like
Cowboys and Indians, your

lips were like marshmallows
that sent off a chain reaction

of wondering if you were cut or uncut,
and how good your ass would really feel

in the hands of a 12 yr old.
Now at thirty three you live with your mother

after losing a house and two girlfriends.
You're a sanitation worker for the city.

Your life is paint drying, but I still
remember kissing that soft mouth of my aunt's oldest son.

 

The is the Poem You Will Not Find on the Windshield of Your Car

This is the poem I will not let you read.
This poem will not be kissed and sealed

away in an envelope to slide beneath
your apartment door.

This isn't something I can recite to you over the phone.
It will not be work shopped,

or sent to closest friends.
This poem is not a gift.

It's not what you think.
Not love or sex.

This poem will not be read
at poetry readings,

or change the minds of the world.
This poem does not do tricks,

or make terrorist threats.
It is not about buckets of lemons

on porches, or love broken
in seven places.

This poem will not be sent out to off
the wall magazines.

I will blanket this poem in pen names.

I have hidden it in a safe place
behind mama's good plates and punch bowl

she only uses for special occasions.
I pack the stanzas, metaphors

and similes with mothballs
secure from poetry eating moths.

No more lines written about frozen
chili thawing in the sink or pet tarantulas.

This is the poem you will
not find beneath the goose-feathered pillow of your bed.