Graeme: a poëm

 

My tradition within this blog is for the first post of the year to be a poëm. In ten days time crippledqueeranglo-europeanranter will be twelve years old. Due to health issues (more below if the reader is interested) it is unlikely I shall return to celebrate. But one never knows!

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The poëm is one of three I wrote about my encounters with a queer chap named Graeme. I may post the other two, if I recall to do so.

For those who have not met the term Todeslied, it literally means “Death song” - a link to the Wikipedia item on Lieder can be found within the text.

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Graeme

“When times are good, be happy!” Ecclesiastes 7:14

Graeme

the image of a Gallagher brother

at least in the setting of your eyebrows

and sapphirine orbs;

not the inert eyes of Liam

yours incandesce

with ardour for life.

The poppers, spliffs and copious alcohol

obfuscate your senses:

perhaps

to help drop your defences;

perhaps

to heighten the pleasure

in the moment with self;

perhaps

to dull recollection.

of an affinity past

a long-lost treasure.

I regard you

enjoying the atavistic rhythms

of contemporary primal dance.

I see

melanic hair

highlighted with silver threads.

I see

heavy growth

a need for a shave soon.

I see

one whose manner

whose demeanour

radiates gentleness

composure

affability.

I see

your svelte body arc

in response to the latest tune.

I see

trendy attire

enhancing

a masculine physique,

ink-blue jeans cling

to small, pert buttocks

and referencing puerile youth

the adolescent fabric stretch

across slightly protruding

a-hum… genitalia;

momentarily

I imagine how it would feel

to glide my hands down

over your hips and thighs

and what-have-ya

but almost instantly

push the thought from my consciousness,

erase it from my mind’s-eyes.

I see

your lips caressing

insignificantly devious

teeth

in turn hiding

that lascivious

tongue.

I would like to kiss you

and note the politeness

inherent in my desire

- what would a psychiatrist

make of it all?

A perfunctory, salutary kiss

elicits the opportunity

to taste your sweet flesh

to feel the comforting

heat of your skin

to sense the warmth in

that fleeting labial caress.

I recollect the shared pleasure

listening

to the hopeful lyric

affirming

“You’re not alone”

… naturally

I have the propensity

to love you

passionately.

Were

indeed are

you aware

of the awe

that surrounded your entry

into our company:

you glanced over

you smiled;

you walked over

you smiled;

you passed by

you smiled;

you perched on the corner of our table

you smiled

- not that I memorised the scene

or anything!

“For heaven’s sake,

keep smiling!

I don’t care whether

it’s me

or one of you

he fancies,

just keep smiling!”

Or does the natural beauty

of your friends and companions

blind you

to the effect of your presence?

So at ease with total strangers

you issue an invitation;

contrary to common-sense

impulsively

or instinctually

I accept.

You give me another quick cheek-kiss

My friends and I share

with your friends

Victoria and Chris

a short taxi-ride

to Victoria Park.

You and I bop

drink tea

chat.

“I’m bisexual”

I confide.

“I know”

you reply,

“I have a friend who’s bisexual

he has a girlfriend

but likes the odd bloke on the side”

you continue

- metaphorically?

You determine more about me

than I about you;

a lifetime’s précis

in ten minutes

(although it probably

seemed much longer

- I could write that book

on how to be a complete bore

or should that be boor!);

we talk

and talk more;

quite literally

hours pass.

You announce

to no-one

or someone

specifically

fixing your gaze on me

your requirements:

a good shagging;

a hot, steaming, candle-lit bath;

an aromatic massage;

a bed with freshly-laundered sheets

… well, let me see

I could definitely fulfil three

of your needs.

In the early morning

we step out into the wet new-day,

we slide into a fast car.

The dance-beat continues;

yawning

I cannot hear what you say.

Content

to look at your nape

the back of your head

the left-side of your face

to look into your eyes

in the rear-view mirror

- they reflect nothing back;

emotional vampyrism

- no, too exotic;

probably

fatigue and concentration

or acknowledgement

of the rush to oblivion

self-destruction.

The Todeslied

reminds us

death is an horizon

we cannot view

beyond.

On the parcel-shelf

I espy

your limp, discarded top

askew

an empty skin

somehow erotic;

I touch it

and feel

your moistness;

I dare not inhale

the pheromones

- after all,

it would not be decorous!

I live a whole life

in those final few minutes

loving and losing

as in all Forsterian affinities

hopeful and hopeless.

You remind me

once again

to issue an invitation

to my birthday-party

then give me your number.

I prepare to give you

the obligatory

gay cheek-peck

but somehow

our faces do not quite align

and we meet

cheeks

and lips

in an unhurried hug.

Once again

aware of the falling rain,

I turn to head homewards

for much-needed slumber

then pause to wait

under a dripping arbour-gate.

I hear the reversing car:

it shoots around the bend;

you beep the horn;

the girls wave;

and

in a flash of spray

a blur of vision

you are

gone

…

corporeally absent

spiritually present

or engrammatically

imprinted

in time

in memory

in me.

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The song referenced is “You’re Not Alone” (1997) by Olive.

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My physical health and my mental health have both taken a turn for the worse. I have been working on a letter to my G.P. on and off for over three months. I find it very difficult to concentrate for more than a few minutes. Then I am exhausted for several days. This all relates to inter alia the Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and the lack of social-care. I am trying to hold on to Hope, and mostly succeeding.

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Extremely late, I reälise, but given the current state of global-affairs, I nonetheless bid all my readers a happy, healthy & peaceful new year. 🙏🏻