My tradition within this blog is for the first post of the year to be a poëm. In ten days time crippledqueeranglo-europeanranter will be twelve years old. Due to health issues (more below if the reader is interested) it is unlikely I shall return to celebrate. But one never knows!
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The poëm is one of three I wrote about my encounters with a queer chap named Graeme. I may post the other two, if I recall to do so.
For those who have not met the term Todeslied, it literally means “Death song” - a link to the Wikipedia item on Lieder can be found within the text.
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Graeme
“When times are good, be happy!” Ecclesiastes 7:14
Graeme
the image of a Gallagher brother
at least in the setting of your eyebrows
and sapphirine orbs;
not the inert eyes of Liam
yours incandesce
with ardour for life.
The poppers, spliffs and copious alcohol
obfuscate your senses:
perhaps
to help drop your defences;
perhaps
to heighten the pleasure
in the moment with self;
perhaps
to dull recollection.
of an affinity past
a long-lost treasure.
I regard you
enjoying the atavistic rhythms
of contemporary primal dance.
I see
melanic hair
highlighted with silver threads.
I see
heavy growth
a need for a shave soon.
I see
one whose manner
whose demeanour
radiates gentleness
composure
affability.
I see
your svelte body arc
in response to the latest tune.
I see
trendy attire
enhancing
a masculine physique,
ink-blue jeans cling
to small, pert buttocks
and referencing puerile youth
the adolescent fabric stretch
across slightly protruding
a-hum… genitalia;
momentarily
I imagine how it would feel
to glide my hands down
over your hips and thighs
and what-have-ya
but almost instantly
push the thought from my consciousness,
erase it from my mind’s-eyes.
I see
your lips caressing
insignificantly devious
teeth
in turn hiding
that lascivious
tongue.
I would like to kiss you
and note the politeness
inherent in my desire
- what would a psychiatrist
make of it all?
A perfunctory, salutary kiss
elicits the opportunity
to taste your sweet flesh
to feel the comforting
heat of your skin
to sense the warmth in
that fleeting labial caress.
I recollect the shared pleasure
listening
to the hopeful lyric
affirming
“You’re not alone”
… naturally
I have the propensity
to love you
passionately.
Were
indeed are
you aware
of the awe
that surrounded your entry
into our company:
you glanced over
you smiled;
you walked over
you smiled;
you passed by
you smiled;
you perched on the corner of our table
you smiled
- not that I memorised the scene
or anything!
“For heaven’s sake,
keep smiling!
I don’t care whether
it’s me
or one of you
he fancies,
just keep smiling!”
Or does the natural beauty
of your friends and companions
blind you
to the effect of your presence?
So at ease with total strangers
you issue an invitation;
contrary to common-sense
impulsively
or instinctually
I accept.
You give me another quick cheek-kiss
My friends and I share
with your friends
Victoria and Chris
a short taxi-ride
to Victoria Park.
You and I bop
drink tea
chat.
“I’m bisexual”
I confide.
“I know”
you reply,
“I have a friend who’s bisexual
he has a girlfriend
but likes the odd bloke on the side”
you continue
- metaphorically?
You determine more about me
than I about you;
a lifetime’s précis
in ten minutes
(although it probably
seemed much longer
- I could write that book
on how to be a complete bore
or should that be boor!);
we talk
and talk more;
quite literally
hours pass.
You announce
to no-one
or someone
specifically
fixing your gaze on me
your requirements:
a good shagging;
a hot, steaming, candle-lit bath;
an aromatic massage;
a bed with freshly-laundered sheets
… well, let me see
I could definitely fulfil three
of your needs.
In the early morning
we step out into the wet new-day,
we slide into a fast car.
The dance-beat continues;
yawning
I cannot hear what you say.
Content
to look at your nape
the back of your head
the left-side of your face
to look into your eyes
in the rear-view mirror
- they reflect nothing back;
emotional vampyrism
- no, too exotic;
probably
fatigue and concentration
or acknowledgement
of the rush to oblivion
self-destruction.
The Todeslied
reminds us
death is an horizon
we cannot view
beyond.
On the parcel-shelf
I espy
your limp, discarded top
askew
an empty skin
somehow erotic;
I touch it
and feel
your moistness;
I dare not inhale
the pheromones
- after all,
it would not be decorous!
I live a whole life
in those final few minutes
loving and losing
as in all Forsterian affinities
hopeful and hopeless.
You remind me
once again
to issue an invitation
to my birthday-party
then give me your number.
I prepare to give you
the obligatory
gay cheek-peck
but somehow
our faces do not quite align
and we meet
cheeks
and lips
in an unhurried hug.
Once again
aware of the falling rain,
I turn to head homewards
for much-needed slumber
then pause to wait
under a dripping arbour-gate.
I hear the reversing car:
it shoots around the bend;
you beep the horn;
the girls wave;
and
in a flash of spray
a blur of vision
you are
gone
…
corporeally absent
spiritually present
imprinted
in time
in memory
in me.
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The song referenced is “Not Alone” (1997) by Olive.
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My physical health and my mental health have both taken a turn for the worse. I have been working on a letter to my G.P. on and off for over three months. I find it very difficult to concentrate for more than a few minutes. Then I am exhausted for several days. This all relates to inter alia the Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and the lack of social-care. I am trying to hold on to Hope, and mostly succeeding.
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Extremely late, I reälise, but given the current state of global-affairs, I nonetheless bid all my readers a happy, healthy & peaceful new year. 🙏🏻
