New Labour

We fight and fight to win
We want it much more than we oughta
Is the pursuit of power such a sin
As our ideals are sent to slaughter

Well we made it, here we are
Now we can change the world
But a drink first at the bar?
Our victory story should be told

Things can only get better
But these changes will take time
I’ll send you your answer in a letter
Young man your place or mine?

Camelot this aint
The walls of decency soon breached
The towns are yet to see red paint
Were we aiming for a summit never reached?

And yet we’ll win again
And just as handsome as before
A country run by foolish men
Never changing, wanting more

'Him'

Lost in translation
The meanings of a mind unknown to me
Can he not understand frustration?
This ache, this pain, constantly

A kindness so cruel
Every moment I wake, it is all him
Am I the servant of deliberate misrule?
Where is he? Doing what? I am in chains to his whim

Darkness falls in the midday sun
An innocent victim of a supposed indifference
An accusation unanswered and unbegun
Love, a chasm, void, such insurmountable distance

I will never see all of him
Yet I am with him now. Nothing else matters
That smile, a glance, the touch of him
This self delusion will leave my heart in tatters

If I told him, would he comprehend?
The passion that I feel is all my own
This feeling, obsession, I do not recommend
Would I exchange this sublime agony to be alone?

Blonde and perfect
A visage I will never tire to see
Every nuance of his face I still inspect
Could it all in truth be mine, Imaginary

Our first kiss. Heaven sent
The moment of infinite remembrances
I hoped for more, but fear nothing meant
But the corporeal lust of man’s embraces

So intimate, yet utterly remote
The door may be glass but it is still locked
What else can that gentle smile denote?
But despite it my wish is effortlessly blocked

His eyes are pools I long to drown in
Each tiny flaw makes him ever more beautiful
Is he the apple or serpent of my original sin?
Oh to taste that sweetest fruit again. His want? Inscrutable

The milk white crest of his hip
Let my mind be forever marked with that image
His cup so briefly bestowed, I greedily sip
I disregard all fear of damage

Can something dreamed a thousand times be real?
I have never felt such absence of control
I fear to ask and he will never of his own intent reveal
Such fleeting joy for a tortured soul

Hours pass. Unbounded bliss
Time is a construct without meaning now
My life could end right here in this
But still no promise made, no vow

Why him though? With a life so full
What has captured and enraptured so complete?
Since when was my own life so malleable
Self confidence and self regard made obsolete

I am beyond and without my mind
The fever rages, fuelled by his ambiguity
Still willingly to this fate I am resigned
This hope will not be quelled by bleak eternity

He is both a monster and a saint
I kneel before this unseeing deity
But a martyr’s death in fire before I would repent
I word from him and I once more in sanctuary

What is at the heart of his desire?
He is the movement on the edge of vision
Thoughts of me not even ashes on the pyre
I avoid any prospect of his ultimate ambition

A cowards game for us both perhaps
His sins if they are his, receive my absolution
Am I caught by his design or confusion’s trap
For all this pain, not for me finality or conclusion

This is not love I feel but madness
A compulsion, irrational and unbounded
But to cut free and live again. Oh what melancholy sadness
My sense and reason remain confounded

I can never give him up or try
This is what I tell myself every day
Every chance of freedom and escape I will defy
Hurt, witting or not, would be doubled if he went away

He is the light I see but cannot reach
Enough to stop the darkness but not to find salvation
In my mind, his voice, the intonation of his speech
I deserve it all and now without ration

Inside I burn with such incendiary emotion
Over the hope of his affection I keep silent watch
My life is his, a solitary devotion
But with all this time and thought, no plan to hatch

It is my terror that time will take him
I may be no more than a folly or fascination
The chance that I mean more, to that I cling
I prostrate myself before his every inclination

Again and again, how much does he know?
Would this bring shock? Amusement? Devilry?
Joy or despair, everything depends upon a dice that he might throw
Does he notice or exploit as I surrender my dignity

What will come to pass? What does our future hold?
My fate within his grasp and does he even know?
But I will wait and wait and wait as I grow old
In the hopeless hope of love that he might show

Yet in my own self, I already know the truth
For this journey I walk and walk alone
I understand the selfishness of youth
For when and if he knows I’m sure a heart of sympathy but stone

The merest glimpse of liberty
And all I desire is his breath upon my shoulder
Can I endure this in perpetuity
In love it is a lie that wisdom comes as we grow older

But the knowledge of what is, does not set me free
For as dear friend, no doubt you’re sure
I am the sole author of this
My own unending tragedy

Poetry Corner - 'Old Gay'

Old Gay

Is my mouth too small, or my face too big?
I wish my belly didn’t move when I start to jig.
Beauty is only skin deep, but I have too much skin.
As a gay man I’m invisible, the only way is thin.

I am what I am, as long as it meets with your approval.
You don’t like it? I can change. My surgeon’s quite a marvel.
Am I too old to be a twink?
Ha, what do you think!

I love the gay scene, but it doesn’t still love me.
I’m yesterday’s man now, the boy who used to be.
Although my t shirts are still tight, it’s not a pretty sight.
Move over fat boy, you’re blocking out our light.

In gay years I’m 101, life over, deeds done.
How can someone like me still expect to have some fun?
But I still enjoy the music, the energy, the faces.
I could teach these lads a thing or two.
Put them through their paces.

Maybe not. A gin and tonic if you please.
No chance of romance here. I have the ‘old’ disease.
I should start a home for ageing gays.
You can join at 23.
A tea dance in the morning and an enema at 3.

I joke of course, for your amusement.
Life’s not so bad for a youth misspent.
For as I age, so do my friends.
On a carousel of fun where the party never ends.

I may be older, but I’m richer and there’s plenty good in that!
A big pile in the country, a houseboy and a cat.
So keep your tiny waist, your youth and your bad taste.
I’m happy as I am, now I’m past that, I’m a man.