Pout - A Poem

Pout

Something has happened to my lips.

Before the Change, I had a nice smile, and I liked to use it –

charming, cheeky, sometimes a little sly.

I look over old photos, and see myself,

looking out at me,

and there is my smile.

My old smile.

Benign, friendly, open.

Guileless.

Now, without my willing,

like Dr. Strangelove’s sexy cousin,

the flesh in my face

contorts to strange new shapes,

lips leering out

like two red pepper slices,

eyebrows raised, mouth corner creeping up,

until, without a doubt, a fabulous pout beams out,

nuclear power in a look,

a danger to the world.

I like it.

Fucking Faggots

“Get in the car you fucking fag!” A large cab had just pulled up as I waited at a bus stop outside the London club in which I had been dancing. It was filled with drunken men, and I didn’t get the impression they were inviting me to join them in a 6-way. I looked up from my phone, raised my eyebrows in astonishment, and caught the eye of the man who had yelled. “Not you! My friend!” He pointed to the man standing next to me, who was now stumbling toward the cab’s open door. “You do look like a fag though”. And they drove away.

Images of Pride

Of Shot Boys, Age and Authenticity

"Cover's $4. Unless you're pretty enough. Then you don't have to pay." The doorman extended his hand to take my money - I didn't make the cut. I stepped into the darkened club, the sound of ear-piercing music vibrating through me, and made it to a balcony. Looking down, I saw a square raised podium, crammed with gorgeous, young writhing bodies and surrounded by a crush of pulsating people. And, flitting through the massed crowds, barely-clothed angels with trays of luminous nectar.

Bracing myself against the railing with one hand, the other cupping my ear to save at least half my hearing, I think to myself: "Wow. I'm unpretty, and I'm ten years too old."...

Thinking Twice - Thoughts on Straight Privilege

I lean closer, brush the hair from her eyes, trace the line of her face down to her neck, then gently pull us together for a deep, long kiss. As we separate, we press our foreheads together, smiling, my hands resting on the back of her neck, hers resting lightly on my chest. Another couple on the bus, impressed by our passion, asks "Are you two newlyweds?" 

Touch - A Poem

So, I've been writing some poetry. I make no claims as to its quality ;)

Touch

I grab the handrail,

perhaps

to steady myself against the rocking of the train,

so I do not lose my balance.

It is surprisingly cold beneath my fingers,

and I know it will confer

a metallic

tang.

I don’t mind.

Slowly, I edge my hand downward

until my little finger

 is resting

gently

on

his

thumb.

It is surprisingly warm beneath my finger,

and I thrill even at this

slightest

touch.

I glance around, and wonder:

“Is anybody looking?”,

then snake my little finger round his larger one,

and flex,

and I find my balance.

James Croft, July 2010

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