Lavender Menace

I remember catching glimpses of it growing up,
brazenly displayed on the shelves of little indie book shops –
Butt Magazine,
a title so queer and unapologetic my pulse raced.

the covers graced by models captured raw/hairy/nude and always smiling unabashed.
long before I knew I was their brethren,
they called out to me,
artists, poets, musicians, all queer men.

and now that I have grown
the time has arrived like a rite of passage,
a collection of their greatest hits living on the coffee table,
all my very own.

Almost 30

Let your mind roam

to all the places you were never meant to go

all the rules you’ve broken

Non, je ne regrette rien

not a single lover or friendship laid to rest –

not a breathless night lost in karaoke

cursing, crying, drowning pain in whiskey

dancing in the wilderness

wild child running through the city

For that’s the charm of growing up

there are no real mistakes

just research

reset

scraped knuckles, teeth clenched,
notes crinkled, piled up in the waste bin.
half-finished thoughts and ill-conceived poetry
lines circled then crossed out in runny ink,
a once gifted orator with mouth now devoid of the right words.
so easy to emanate kindness, yet so hard to reserve a little for yourself.
every day a battle, finding healthy outlets for anger and pain, healthy ways to feel good,
even if it’s only fleeting.
After all, if there’s one thing you’ll learn (again and again), it’s that nothing is permanent
except chasing light through the endless darkness,
shouting out after love and happiness.

between the lines

acid
dripping from our tongues

helped
hurt, healed, open

me
lost in wilderness for so long

trust
misplaced in false hopes/idols

love
defined and redefined however you please

again
brought back to the start with renewed strength and a fresh perspective

Ode to Cigarettes

No regrets,

although, I have to let you go,

We’ve been together since …16?

hurt,

happy,

wild young thing,

and you holding me,

caressing the night air like silk.

Every time we’re together

  I

fall,

choke on nothing,

head light,

s p i n n i n g,

Don’t cry my dear,

this is our sweet end.

Lost in the Desert

(Tom Pearce, Photographed by: Yours Truly)

Curiosity gets the better of us, a barbed fence away and we’re hand in hand running out in the open, 

Plains melting into the rockformations, feet melting into the plains.

Bees nests, prickly grass, snake holes, and not much else for miles,

Untouched by greed and unnecessary cruelty,

True civilization.

Motion

can’t stand still,
like streams, rivers, oceans all across our mother earth,

we’re mostly salt, water, and clichés spilled softly over coffee and a scone.

can’t stand still,

can’t be tied to titles, when you crave the time to roam –

all the galleries in the city, in Cologne, Paris, Rome,

couldn’t feed your appétit pour l’art.

just you and your lover,

alone on the open road,

can’t stand still.