I don’t follow, I lead. Why date sheep, when you’re married to the butcher.

Last Laugh

Having had the last laugh, he saw the humour in his ultimate death.

In living, others, he would never find out, just got to laugh a lot longer.


We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
My turn. Hand slightly shaking, I count backwards. 10, 9, 8, 7..
Will I or won’t I? 5, 4, 3, 2… I will!
I pull the trigger! ‘click’.
We laugh. It is not my time to go.
Big boys, playing with boy toys.

I want to tell you that I love you,
but boys don’t say that to boys,
I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Jenny drives over to join us.
I watch, feeling jealous as you kiss her; how you look into her eyes; how you smile.
Watching you slightly stroking her breast, I know I shouldn’t,
but wanting to watch, and unable to peel away,
I can feel myself getting hard.
Playing Russian Roulette.
I am 32, way too old to be playing this game.
I have to wait for a suitable moment to eventually head to the toilet.
My sensitivity heightened being in same space as you,
I try to stifle my groan as I cum.

Not wanting to be a third wheel, I’m heading back home.
Music blaring, I’m singing to some camp classic.
As I pull into the driveway, I can see that you’ve left me a message.
You and Jenny have had argument and she’s gone. I go back to yours.

We talk about Jenny. How she’s a bitch, how all she does is complains, about how crap she is in everything she does, but how at least she gives good head. We talk and drink.
We drink, we talk, solving nothing, not even our own world problems.
We stumble up the stairs, laughing about all the stupid shit we just drank ourselves silly about.

I finally get you to your room, plopping you on the bed. I turn to walk out, but you pull me towards you, with me falling on top of you. We are face-to-face, as I try to pull away, you pull me back.  ‘Man, I tell you, if I were gay, I’d be all over you’, and then you kiss me, on the mouth. You. Kiss. Me. On. My. Mouth. We kiss. We both stop, then stare at each other.  I don’t know what to say. You smile, and repeat, ‘if I were gay, I’d be all over you’ and fall off into a drunken sleep.

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
because we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
Falling asleep on the couch, I know that you told me love me;
but boys don’t say that to boys’, I tell myself, ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago’.


Having freed himself of her lies some time ago,
her silence was the last word she spoke to him.


You are my first thought in the morning,
the last in the evening,
and the many thoughts in between.

My Eulogy

img_0066Take me to a vast and open field and with my last elegy being read, release my ashes as you set me free, free in death, to run with the wind.  No, tears you will not cry – at least not tears of death; but cry for me tears of birth.  Like a new born emancipated from the womb taking its first breath, I will be liberated to take breaths elsewhere.

Tell him.  Tell him that I loved.  Tell him that I loved, if not only him.  Tell him I tried to find the words, I tried.  But I soon found there wasn’t enough songs to sing, nor enough words to write and then, never enough time.  Tell him, I became impatient for more time, and then impatient with the time I had.

I want to be buried under a moonlit sky, with only the whistle of the trees’ silence, with no words spoken as I spoke them all before.  Write no words too, as those letters will never tell the stories that we’ve already told.  Cry, you will not, at least not from my words; and least not from our words.

In her ear whisper.  In her ear whisper that no matter what, I will stand at her side.  Tell her, my mother dear, the whisper she hears will be mine.  Tell her the whistling of the trees in the silence, with no words said, will be me.  Tell her to take me to a vast open field, so my last elegy can be read, and to spread my ashes with the wind.  Tell her there, to set me free.

AAB’s Lament

He knew no love song or poem would ever be written for him;
not even those written in his own words.