I saw my first lesbians when I was 6.
She was short with spiky hair,
She was tall with curly hair.
They held each other tenderly,
Floating blissfully in the swimming pool,
Absorbed in each other and unaware of
The shaking head of my father
And his outstretched arm
As he shielded his children from the happy couple.
When I was little, I held weddings for my Barbie dolls
And I couldn’t understand why my parents made me stop.
It wasn’t until they bought me a shiny new Ken doll
That the weddings could start again.
A few months ago
Mum discovered her friends were lesbians
And I beheld in her eyes the mixture of wonder and disgust.
Wild-eyed recounts of intrusions on quiet embraces
And the fear of the unknown heavy in every word.
How disappointed they would be now!
To know that I dream of my head between a woman’s thighs.
That I remember with fondness
The feminine lips that have pressed against mine.
I am what you fear.
The hell-bound filthy sinner
Bent on destruction and lust.
Sneaking into your society, poisoning your children.
I am the monster you hate, the wretch you pity.
But maybe you would understand
If you saw how sweet this ******* is.
If you knew how it feels
To see sweet contentment and bliss
In the arms of a woman.
Mona Lisa, mona linda,
O emblem of western beauty!
A hundred greedy eyes rest on you,
Drinking you in.
Crowds and crowds gather
To feast on your unsmiling face,
Your stiff posture, your
Within the golden frame you are
Frozen in time
And unable to escape those relentless gawks.
With an audience of 2 million.
Adoring fans, passers-by
Cry out in praise!
“Beauty, beauty, beauty!”
Do they know what they see?
Bland Western beauty standards served up on a plate.
Fresh from Ireland and ready to eat.
Dreams of wealth and success
Wrapped up in pale white skin
And short blonde hair.
"mona linda" is Spanish for "pretty blonde". I recently moved to Colombia and am pursued by these shouts, accompanied by stares wherever I go. Another product manufactured for male gaze. These shouts are my punishment for having the audacity to be alive and walk down the street.
The sun sets on Ireland,
patchwork fields illuminated by the august light of
Misty hues spilling
over the mountains,
glimpsed through a mist of tears
fighting not to be shed.
The last sunset
of a brief glimpse of manic happiness
The fields flash by,
each one transforming into a rose-coloured memory,
and a tsunami of melancholy threatens to
knock me down.
Heavy sighs and
knowing looks and
held-back tears and
one last caress of your sun-kissed skin.
The sun sets on Ireland
And opens into a bright new tomorrow.
no tongue could ever render intelligible
the perpetual idioms of the mind.
language always fails. our thoughts are never fully understood.
You cry the name of your god in vain;
Holy blasphemy from the depths of sin.
Praising my *** with his sacred name.
Turn and worship at my altar.
I am the goddess, enthroned on your lust.
I am the image, graven on your chest.
I am the calf, forged from your gold.
What have I done to you,
Oh man of God!
Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him from evil.
Deliver him from me.
a recurrent theme; the corruption of godly men. unintentional and heartbreaking, but oh so sweet.
slow and sweaty
sleepless summer nights
trapped in my room and
tortured by thoughts of you.
from the wrong side of the sea
i hear your soft moans
and i see your golden body
poised and yearning.
it doesn’t matter if you evade my arms
when the screen can imprison you
and my dreams can immortalize you.
i want you i want you i want you
I would wonder if there be
A hidden portrait there of thee
Which bears thy sin and guilt and shame
While outwardly, thou art the same.
If this not be, then let me write
A poem to bring this all to light.
Let these immortal words then be
That true and twisted sight of thee.
a ****** unfinished poem about the first, last and only boy to ever hurt me.