Poetry Blogs (gender/sexuality)

Take off your top hat.

Greet the ladies with a sincere smile.

Bow to them.

Do not let them see your chest!

Perform

Tease them,

You ARE a boy

I AM a girl-

Lift up your chin,

Let me sink my teeth,

Deep, into your Adams apple

My boy,

I’ll rot you to the core.

Mine, my doll, my darling-

Let me twirl your tight curling locks

I am hidden,

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I've been asked, by people following my blog, to include the poems I read on my recent poetry tour, so I'm putting them on here, then will be providing links back here from the blog. Hence...

On looking back into the mosh pit

This was never about fun, you rotten liar,

never about fun, but something higher,

never about fun. Yes, about drums,

pounding like the feet...

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I've been asked, by people following my blog, to include the poems I read on my recent poetry tour, so I'm putting them on here, then will be providing links back here from the blog. Hence...

Eggshells

You tell me you have to walk on eggshells

and I wonder what eggshells you mean.

Is it the fact you can’t call me a fag

because the same blood flows in both our veins?

...

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I've been asked, by people following my blog, to include the poems I read on my recent poetry tour, so I'm putting them on here, then will be providing links back here from the blog. Hence...

Tension

I drink watermelon breezer,

holding the neck of the bottle

between my left mid and index fingers,

flashing a V with each swig,

showing off my purple nails.

T...

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When the have-nots decide they'd like to have a little more

you call it class war, class war;

but when the rich declare a silent genocide against the poor

it's never class war, it's only case law.

When muslims get irate and say they'll detonate the state

you say it's faith that generates their hate;

but when the guys with home-made gelignite are English-born and wh...

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Manchester

I come to again

in this hotel room dark

where paranoia eats the curtains

like a fleet of moths

the wine and whiskey in my bloodstream

laying plans with my enemy hormones,

chemical defence

to make my body

shuck my soul, leave me

just another zombi

in the low sun light of day

so inviting

this annihilation

...

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Beneath the swagger portrait

she stands, legs wide, arms angled,

hand -  raised to harp or dance,

to be plighted, an enchanting gift,

their pallor and their dainty size

a toy for kings to stroke

with their rough fists,

and marvel at, returning

from campaign, or from the lists -

turned in, and resting on the skirts

which flare from where her hips mus...

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It has to start in whispers,

rehearsed behind closed doors:

mirror-practised gestures,

slowly savoured words -

jacquard, damask, devore -

rolled and tasted on the tongue.

It is always sotto voce,

this song, when first it is sung,

and for some it never rises

to a higher tone and pitch.

For some, the song is silenced

by the insults, by the fists,

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