No, I’m Gay (A slam poem)

Hi, my name is Lu-
Wait, it’s not like you care.
You’ve already made assumptions based
on my hair,
Both the length on my head
and what’s down there.

For my sex life, my body image
is clearly your business, broadcasted news.
If you can convince me it’s a phase,
for it’s God’s message (well done you.)

Clearly what porn portrays is
a rehearsal for my real past time.
Asking if I scissor is obviously fine.
But you don’t want tips, you’re not that way inclined.
You ask if you can join,
for lesbian means fetish…
So why would I mind?

As if holding my girlfriend’s hand
is some kind of offence
Yet your Porn Hub’s biggest fan,
So it’s doesn’t make sense.

I mean, you’re clearly what I’m after,
what’s missing, the guy I’m really looking for.
A man whose surname I require,
‘Two women only?’ ‘Fancy a threesome?’ Wait,
you’re telling me you’re —”

‘Can I watch?’ ‘So, what is it you do?’ isn’t invasive at all…
I have it easy, ‘boys are dicks’, I’ve heard it all before.

A ‘gay marriage’ is different, exotic, some big day out,
‘I went to a GAY wedding’, your colleague exclaims,
but behind closed doors, nothing’s changed.

Sure, I wear dresses, makeup, no buzz-cut in sight,
for if it’s not penetrative, it’s not real sex, right?
‘Please make me straight’ I’m no church goer, but I pray,
‘I’m not interested’, ‘I’m taken’, ‘I see you as a friend…’

No, I’m…
gay.

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The Scream

A screethe-screamch, a yelp, a cry-for-help,

the sex-less Orient weeps. The wind’s cries

wound the clouds in a child-like scribble. Broken colour

erodes the sky in a volcanic mess.

The red smoke fuelling the creature’s trauma; terror-stricken, a product of time’s inevitable toll.

 

Or perhaps it’s euphoric, ecstatic, a wail of joy,

an outcast of the field’s decay. The sky eroding in an attack of Crayola,

its cloud’s clashing patchwork now bruised; emotionally tainted by human vandals.

 

For watchers dissect the image, responsible in decoding a painter’s allusion.

Strangers can’t make sense of the uncomfortable scene.

Why must we untangle, make sense, of a lost cause’s mind?

For God’s sake, let the lone wanderer scream.

A Hypothetical Job

Once again the paper is jammed

tightly strung like my tolerance in

the lift, immersed in a duvet of strangers, a huddle

of workers, where all

we have in common is our

morning Starbucks run.

 

We don’t take the stairs, we have a reputation to

uphold for why do things ourselves when the

computer pastes it as routine?

Each day indistinguishable,

each day a ready meal, like auto-pilot,

for my mind is now drunk from black clotted coffee

my legs structured by clockwork, reliant on the subway.

 

Being praised doesn’t exist

when your competition lies on the grey of your suit

being a notable slate or distinct charcoal.

And the man on the morning commute seems vaguely familar;

maybe you saw him take beating for producing too little

maybe he’s a relative whose name you’ve mistaken

for the smile on your face is now guilt.

 

As your Christmas holiday is taken hostage

by the company of your computer screen

your gift to yourself being new glasses

for your perception has been

altered by the glare of minimum wage.