There is a major shortage
Especially in southern latitudes
That creates an insufficiency
Of any proportionate gratitude.
They don’t realize down there
That the 1970s gay rights fuss
Let issues of personal freedom
Come in from the back of the bus.

These noisy not-very-Christians
Should be standing up to cheer
Instead of pissing and moaning
Over copious bottles of beer
Because all of us are different
In many different secret ways
And if all their secrets came out
Their friends would be amazed.

The difference is that those,
The ‘be Godly on Sunday’ folks
Would be the sad punchlines of
Some fairly disgusting jokes.
The reason they are not making
Gay sex look much more tame
Is they seldom admit out loud
And give their peccadilloes names.

They scoff at those born gay
And point their fingers at us
And use their faulty logic to
Pompously try to combat us.
It takes those of us who stand,
Who fit the profile of the plucky
To try to get across the point;
Bigots should think themselves lucky.

It’s a wonder that the news today
Of the gropers and the whorehounds
Those jerks elected to high office
Think they stand on moral ground
While many reverends are molesting
Blackmailing, cheating and conniving
And yet of hypocrisy by the righteous
News virtually never stops arriving.

Could it be that it is too much for them
To keep this self-righteous stance
Of watching those demanding freedom
And still looking at them askance?
Wouldn’t it be better if they all
Did what their pal Jesus really said
And get what the revivalist untutored
Greedy church liars out of their head?

#hypocrisy #self-righteous #lies #sneaks #smugness #poetry #kincaid

There is really nothing
A Southern boy can do
If the one he loves
Is a Southern boy too.
I’m lower than a crook
Never welcome here.
But it’s a chance I took
Because I am a queer.

We played all the roles
Like we were normal guys.
For the most part we did so
Since honesty was not wise.
Straight Southern boys
Live a life of total fear
That someone might think
One of them is queer.

We were both athletes
So, it was easy to hide.
We knew we were in love
But we hid it all inside.
The mindset in the South
is all about Lord Jesus
Southern gay boys don’t ever
Get to to whatever pleases.

Down South the rule is
Who you are doesn’t matter
But if you quote scripture
You can be as mad as a hatter.
So perfectly healthy gays
Each new Southern generation
Is forced to act as if they were
Still living on the plantation.

The only hope for gays
Beneath the Mason-Dixon line
To move up north somewhere
And that will be just fine.
That will bring the idea of gays
Quietly to a proper end
And then the South can be pure
Just like God wants it again.

#bigotry #elitism #homophobia #Southerners #romance #poem #Kincaid
Brent Kincaid Apr 15

My country does not believe in equality.
It buys excuses for elitism and misogyny.
It covers up its greed and its brutality
And makes up ugly labels for decency.

My country sings its songs about freedom
But often denies it to those who need some.
It celebrates our heritage with beer and rum
And marches to the beat of a fascist drum.

My country was founded by nice words
Some of the finest man has ever heard.
Then shows the intelligence of a cattle herd;
And the social conscience of rotted bean curd.

My country labors under some illusions
That contribute to a national delusion
That fame will ultimately cure all contusions
And eradicate the effects of collusion.

My country thinks pretty people are sacrosanct
So, they let the beautiful load up their piggy bank.
We see reverence for the most egregious crank,
And have many of our countrymen to thank.

My country isn’t very good at followup.
It adopted the behavior of an untrained pup.
As long as it has its favorite pablum to sup
It will drink any poison that’s in their cup.

My country is this way, has been for too long
And if you disagree with the words of my song
Write your own treatise to try to prove me wrong.
For now I will keep on banging this protest gong.

Brent Kincaid Apr 14

He was just fourteen
When he ran away
He couldn’t take it
For even one more day.
His mom just ignored him
Dad watched football games.
They talked behind his back
About who they should blame.

You gotta be the way
We think you should be.
Never be like you
Always be like me.
Butch it up in public
Change the way you walk.
If you can’t do that
Just shut up, don’t talk.

He was teased about his name
And teased about his size.
He had a kind of stutter.
They didn’t think him wise.
He was kind and polite and
Had a soft pleasant voice
So, the jerks in the crowd said
He was one of the gay boys.

The problem was he wasn’t
What any of them thought.
He was straight and he was shy
But what his manner brought
Was constant stereotyping
Based on bad parenting
Both at home and at school
Never quite relenting.

You gotta be the way
We think you should be.
Never be like you
Always be like me.
Butch it up in public
Change the way you walk.
If you can’t do that
Just shut up, don’t talk.

So Rodney ran away
And lived out on the street
Taking charity from those
Runaways always meet.
Now Rodney’s in jail
In the hospital ward.
His leap for freedom
Had some bad rewards.

You gotta be the way
We think you should be.
Never be like you
Always be like me.
Butch it up in public
Change the way you walk.
If you can’t do that
Just shut up, don’t talk.

If you haven't gone through some of this, you might think this is a sad fantasy but for millions of kids it is reality.
Brent Kincaid Apr 13

We marched because
They told us we couldn’t march.
We loved because
They told us we couldn’t love.
We married because
They told us we couldn’t marry.
We ran for office because
They told us we couldn’t run.

Freedom is for everyone
Not just for the few.
If any group is left out
The word is not true.

We applied for jobs
When they said we could not
We applied for loans
But they tore up the applications.
We manned picket lines
When they said they’d kill us.
We put in for promotions
When they told us we wouldn't win.

Freedom being for everyone
Should not be a dream.
We should not have to explain
Why things aren’t as they seem.

We heard the words
That said Land of the free,
We heard the carols
Peace on earth to all men.
We read the Constitution
That we all of us were equal.
We remembered our schoolwork
That, segregated, taught these words.

Freedom is for everyone
Not just for the few.
If any group is left out
The word is not true.

Brent Kincaid Apr 7

My first friend was a big dog
A great big beautiful boxer.
His name was Duke; he loved me
Seemed prepared to stay forever,
Protecting me from any and all
In our house of anger and noise.
Two careless adults lived there
And no other girls or boys.

There was just the three of us;
I, the first child, and damaged,
Whose infancy was one of abuse,
Whose trust had been ravaged.
A child naturally cries sometimes
And irritates a self-centered dad
He can approach and gesture
And convince the dog he is mad.

Beloved friend, center of my world
Was gone from me the very next day.
Until I was an older child I was told
Dad raged then he took Duke away.
Duke didn’t know, nor did dad
That on that sad and scary day
Dad took not only my doggie friend
But he took trust in my dad away.

Duke was only doing his job, but
Dad saw it as a protective stance.
When that dog growled at him
He damn near peed in his pants.
“I won’t have a dog that threatens
Living in my own house with me!”
I know after living decades at home
What was threatened was dad’s authority.

Brent Kincaid Apr 7

I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this tind of krubble
Sever yince I was sung.

I backed things saidward
It muzz wore than embarrassing.
It got me picked lot upon
Subjected to hate grarrassing.
Sometimes wumbers nould
Lood just like wetters
Back when I was lysdexic
But I am betting getter.

Not just lysdexic am me
But I Spoonerise tum soo.
And unce that sets started
There is lo sittle I can do.
It get’s ard to understand me
And it isses some eeple poff
I really bish I could weegin
To tart to stalk like a toff.

I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this kind of rubble
Sever yince I was sung.

(Actually, I am still a bit dyslexic still, but apparently I learned a lot of tricks back when being dyslexic could get you punished and shamed. As I say here, I’m betting getter.)
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