So there is a discrepancy in my mind that I'm scratching the surface of,
and it is this: I feel normal - having had a moderately satisfying, mildly
successful and sporadically fulfilling day - and sit down to write. Evidence
of my composure at this point is a steaming cup of tea, a showy cursive hand
and the humming of Philip Glass' work in The Hours. And from the first sen-
tence, the most alarming, bitter hatred seethes in my pen and insinuates it-
To be in love
is to expound
with shaky hand
and thoughts profound
all that has occurred around
His coming clouds to fog;
It's his looks I am burnt from-
The look he gave that time he sang
smoke-jazz from the bar he had a tab on,
and now there's a scab I keep locks on
for the bleeding.
Golden boy, pining for a pedestal
and me a fool with rock and chisel.
If only I could now clean up after
One more day. One more dawn. One more car starting up, on the way to work. In the battle to
stay an individual, I lose sometimes. I eat at MacDs, I sleep late, I cruise the sulphur-lit
streets of this mean, spirit-breaking town. And sometimes I win: I wring poetry from experiences,
or craft a short story that touches what I really feel. But the majority of days, I am ashamed
to admit I don't fight. I abstain or withdraw or declare myself Switzerland for the day.
get this lame flag avatar ooffffff!
i really need to fix this and will Take Urgent Steps. Was trying to finish
my history revision notes, and pasted the wrong pic in 'ere. Dammit.
Though, I'm sure a lot of you weren't aware that it's time to celebrate 10
years of democracy, which no one ever thought would happen without a Civil
War. whoo-hoo. we're already quite a poor-ish country, a civil war would've
With apologies to Dr. Seuss.
Oh Lizzqu, I don't like you,
There's nothing to what you do:
Your comments? - Abortive,
short, dead-end, distorted,
And all about you, Lizzqu.
V. sorry to be spreading negativity on our one-for-all, all-for-one sorta sight, but
this poster is irritating me. So, Lizzqu, please take it out on me...Let me just apologise
in advance for people who're going to be pissed off at me for this - I'm sorry to've taken
Welcome, one and all, to another day in my town. It is a thoroughly bizarre little year I've had so far,
with the music turned up a little too high, not enough oxygen in general and constant thoughts of, shall
we say, The Trinity of HSM (Hot Straight Mates).
I am writing Maths Finals soon, and today was a revision class with The Godlike One sitting right behind
me. We have barely exchanged 10 words this year, but I have thought on this boy...well, at least once a
(just wrote this piece now; please don't crit properly as it's spur-of-the-moment and so on)
let oil anoint you
scan the well of loneliness for cracks:
we are well under,
where pink feathers float
and pale thighs, singly, collide in black water.
here is what
i haven't always known to be,
little boy invoking every friend's name
The final exams of my life. No gay slant to my recent life (not that
there every really is much of that). Have read extensively in the
last few days. My best mates, both the hot ones, torment me nightly.
This feels like a betrayal of friendship, which I believe in the
Renaissance was held to be a far higher relationship between two
people than romantic love. So how close is too close? I hug my guy
Today I snapped out of the Malaise. After two days of borderline-existence -
vegetating, eating cups of cereal, reading middle-brow books, being barely
alive - I woke up this morning at 6am. I shaved and showered and shampooed
and scrubbed and cleansed and moisturised. Got dressed in my crisp, deep
blue blazer, grey shorts and stiff-necked white shirt, light-and-dark blue
striped tie, straw hat and brown leather shoes with grey socks. That's right,
Today was not much fun. I awoke in my strange, deathly way, briefly
imagining I was not awake, but only starting another dream. I whisp-
ered to myself that this day was going to bring out the best in me.
This day was potential. I staggered from my darkened room into the
lounge. The house has too many windows, and often I feel like a shop-
window mannequin. There was no food, except a bottle of pesto, some
So you've met two of my friends, Gareth and Bastian. We'll come to
Caleb a little later. Like a million or ten million gay boys around
the world, I wake up in their houses. In Gareth's house, portraits
of Good Bands, Rugby paraphernalia and sexy shots of him with his
mates, mostly at the beach but also covered with mud (!) and dirrrty
after a match on rugby tour to Wales. He has his shirt off (come to
think of it, what kind of mother keeps taking these raunchy topless
photies? Must investigate this). In Bastian's, surfing photos (again,
the topless, achingly trim surfers posing in blossoming blond Calif-
ornia health next their boards. He has FHM posters and a shelf full
of Noddy books and Raold Dahl and Dr. Zeuss.
The Other Jock.
Coffee today with a HSM (Hot Straight Mate) who just got his
driver's licence. He is a handsome bastard, with Hispanic
looks and pure Dutch blood - of which he is rather defensive,
since his father was a diplomat in the Bad Old Days of the
previous régime. Now he manages, in minute and perfect detail,
a small concern concerned with something vague in carpentry
and furniture-making. His mother is a less-frustrated person,
although she has swopped the parties of the capital for hobnobb-
ing with our dowdy local mums at tea parties and the Women's Aux-
iliary (a sort of voluntary assc. for women who enjoy vicious
gossip and a little light charity work in the mornings).
This is going to be just one more day. Another breakfast, random
snacking, a dinner. Coffee, lots of, and smoothies. Dressing up
and going out and Being Brave. Self-loathing and avoiding mates.
Welcome to my part of the world.
I am only just beginning to drive my car properly, and this arvie
I was cabin-feverish - what I've heard described as a six-metre
stare in a five-metre room - so I set out on the dusky road to my