Things Of My Dreams

Gum drops and dinosaurs’ and ants with no knickers

Fruit trees and elephants and bombs with no tickers

Bread & butter pudding covered in cream

These are some of the things of my dreams

Cellophane and cherry cakes and buttons from the ages

Star light and egg cups and books with crisp pages

Leather couches stitched at the seams

These are some of the things of my dreams

Bulldogs and goulash and country houses with lakes

Boxes and goblins and chocolate layer cakes

Low slung sports cars in metallic green

These are some of the things of my dreams

When the jerk speaks

When the flu spreads

When I’m feeling sad

I simply remember the things of my dreams

And then I don’t feel so bad

Bicycles and thrift shops and bears with exotic names

Apple pies and blue skies and foreign cities to exclaim

And those little black shorts on football teams

These are some of the things of my dreams

Peacocks and clowns and Sundays that never end

Big hats and black suits and families that blend

Teapots and sugar bowls in silver that gleams

These are some of the things of my dreams

A world where we’re all equal and afternoon tea cakes on trays

Respect for everyone no matter which way they play

Glorious sunshine that warms my bloodstream

These are some of the things of my dreams

When the jerk speaks

When the flu spreads

When I’m feeling sad

I simply remember the things of my dreams

And then I don’t feel so bad

Wednesday Poem, Jack and Beau

Beau

Wednesday, what can I say?

It is a good day,

for realising what you did on the weekend,

was not just drunken behaviour, per se,

but really pretty fucken gay.

You and your buddy, Jack,

that wasn't just boredom,

or too many beers,

that was pretty fucken queer.

Not that I am pointing a finger,

there should be more of it,

there is more of it,

just not a lot of talk about it

out loud.

You straight boys,

with your big toys,

when there are no girls around,

you always come around,

to getting with each other,

not that there is any bother,

with that, brother,

just what your other mates,

down the footy club,

might say, if they saw you and Jack,

treat each other that way.

Lovely Jack, you and he,

always the best of buds,

you'd agree,

he's got lovely eyes,

you have always noticed, you can't deny,

and you'd do anything for him,

and on the weekend, you pretty much did.

In your arms, so disarmed,

that you have always felt that way about him,

especially when you are 6 to 10 beers in.

Jack

Beau said he liked it and would do it again,

with you, he said, he’d do it again with you

and that spun your head,

when you’ve both only ever gone for girls,

and to your surprise, you liked Beau too,

but you weren’t admitting to that taboo,

oh no. But you did now think Beau was handsome,

something you couldn’t explain. And Beau told you

that you were just so good looking, he had to say

not really in a way that was gay, but matter of fact,

although after what you’d both just done,

how could he not say it was… er… let’s say fun?

Creeping Up On Me

I see my reflection in a shop window

and I see the failure of time

as a crime all over my face.

Then I look away, and hurry off

hoping the face looking back at me

won’t catch up to me any time soon.

Because it sneaks up on you,

as if out of nowhere, leaving you 

wondering where the hell did that come from?

Shall We Begin?

Don't forget your ginger, Ginger.

Sniff your Marjoram, Marjoram.

Grab your lilies, Lily.

Pull on your jeans, Jean.

Wear your hat, Hattie.

Ring your bell, Belle.

Smell your shell, Mel.

Swallow your pill, Will.

Love your jewels, Jules.

Feel the rain on your skin, Min.

Sip your gin, Wyn.

Shall we begin?

Ageist Queer

Nobody likes an old queer

and those distasteful thoughts of geriatrics 

taking it up the rear,

where there is something dashing about a young gay,

muscular legs getting fucked away,

his handsome face calling out in joyous dismay.

That's All

You’ll become dust. I’ll 

become dust. And then big blow,

from the winds of time, 

“Ffffff.” And, that’s all,

as they say,

there we’d go.

That’s it.

That’s our lot.

One time shot. 

That’s what we get.

There is nothing more.

Nothing else.

No matter what men in frocks,

or women with beads and glass balls,

or someone who claims to be ‘otherly’ possessed.

Gurus with flocks,

hippies with pot,

Allah’s men,

Buddha’s friends,

Brahman essence on which you usually depend,

Sharmans,

Witch doctor’s

Kadaitcha man,

Or, even, Dorothy’s friends,

tell you to the contrary.

Big twirl,

Abracadabra,

Poof!

Nothing.

Not.

So, when ‘they’ say to make the most of every minute,

‘they’ mean it.

When ‘they’ say it goes quick,

‘they’ are not fucking kidding.

Whoosh! Wham!

Thank you ma am,

You are done.

“NEXT!”

And if you think that sounds kind of hard arsed,

then think about this, 

you are lying on your death bed,

you only have a short time left,

and your only thought is, if only I had more time,

I would have done this, and this, and that.

More time? You had a life time.

Think about that.

The Liquid Amber

frail beauty falling to earth.

All our broken hearts.