Coming Out as a Straight Ally

 Coming Out as a Straight Ally

“Ally: A person who supports and respects sexual diversity, acts accordingly to challenge homophobic and heterosexist remarks and behaviors, and is willing to explore and understand these forms of bias within themselves. Often describes a heterosexual individual who is nevertheless part of the LGBTQ community”.

In the seventies, we lived with the fear,

Of being labelled a bender or queer,

When even the bullies wore platform shoes

Dressed like androgynous metal gurus,

Had unisex hairstyles, streaked with red dye,

Loved Bowie when Bowie was openly bi;

Though none but the bravest then would’ve cried,

“I’m proud to be in alliance with Pride.”

Back when the alpha-males guarded the grounds,

The hares either hid or ran with the hounds,

And I being neither, yet still all the same,

Hung out with the pack, in search of fair-game;

Such being the same as it ever was

For wilfully ignorant mobs of yobs;

Of which I was part, I have to confess:

Those tough alpha-males I lived to impress,

More Tommy than Tom, of the same surname;

Tom was an activist worthy of fame,

Knocking at closets, till the locks gave way;

The anthem “(Sing if you’re) Glad to be Gay”,

Was a rallying to hares far-and-wide:

“Come out; stand proud, in alliance with Pride!”

Then came a time of misinformation,

Fear, moral panic, intimidation,

Scare-mongering, stigmatisation,

And yet even more discrimination,

AIDS was the “Gay plague” the tabloids declared,

A junkie one too, if needles were shared,

And whilst it was never out rightly said,

The “Punishment” narrative rapidly spread;

Nigh only the Terrence Higgins Trust

Raised issues rarely, if ever discussed,

And it must have been a decade at least

Before the storm calmed (though never quite ceased);

By which time I was a father of two

With an anti-racist socialist worldview:

And in my children, today I see,

The antithesis of what I used to be,

Before I dismissed the bigot inside;

Am I now proud, in alliance with pride?

What does it mean to be a straight ally?

If I looked a trans person in the eye

And pledged undying solidarity,

Would they believe in my sincerity?

Again, I ask, what does it mean; am I really

How my lesbian best friend sees me?

Do I respect sexual diversity,

And support it unconditionally?

And as for the narrative anti queer;

Will I act accordingly, making clear

My opposition, when I hear or witness

Remarks or behaviour, heterosexist,

Homophobic, or transphobic; and what’s more:

Am I able and willing to explore

And understand these forms of biases

Within myself: a heterosexual cis

Man in his sixties, whose past bigotry

Has been laid bare for everyone to see?

Did I type “Straight ally” in Google search?

I did indeed, and upon my research,

It appears I tick every box; so yes:

I’m a straight ally; nothing more nor less,

And if the old the bigot has somehow survived,

His life-support system long cut-off, denied,

He’s less than the ghost he’d be, had he died:

I’m proud to be in alliance with Pride.

Forgive Them Not

Forgive Them Not

Republican former vice-president, Pence,

Signs missiles fired at war-refugee tents;

Biden endorses it, Harris does too;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Musk does a blatantly Nazi salute,

Bannon, concluding a rant, follows suit,

Milei, at CPAC, hands Musk a chainsaw;

He raises it, roaring a metaphor:

“Bureaucracy”, yells the trillionaire hog;

Child-cancer funding thus deemed a mere log;

Sycophants cheering; he cuts his way through;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Two old dictators make plans for Ukraine,

(Hitler and Stalin all over again?),

War-mongers everywhere gain a green light,

To vent their ambition, envy and spite.

Land occupiers make mockery of law,

Murder civilians; claim a “Just” war,

Cleanse a whole nation, deny human rights;

All with a God-promised land in their sights;

The stateless they robbed won’t be allowed near!

Can anyone not see the irony here?

Donald Trump; Benjamin Netanyahu;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Truss’s economy wrecked the UK:

Thirty plus billion she wasted away;

She should be locked up in jail you might say,

Not living the high-life on taxes we pay;

We’re a “Failed state”, so the lettuce declares,

Claiming a government like Tony Blair’s

Is “Socialist”; and “Woke” is to blame;

Omitting the cuts she backed without shame.

Hundreds of thousands austerity killed,

While offshore accounts were callously filled.

Musk aims to maximise suffering now;

Who but a madman would give him such power?

Deluded Conservatives pledge fealty

To oligarchs, living off misery;

I say as an atheist through and through:

Forgive them not Lord; they know what they do.

Las Gaza

 Las Gaza

A pair of old criminals conspired,

To take over land they desired,

Where corpses unclaimed,

‘Neath rubble remained,

And weaponry ceaselessly fired.

Proclaiming a God-ordained mission,

Co land-grabbers bombed with precision,

And with His consent,

Vast billions was spent

Financing a mutual ambition.

Finally there came a cessation,

And after a short conversation,

The gangsters declared,

A deal roundly squared,

Displacing as such, a whole nation.

Now, under their jurisdiction,

Enabled by archaic fiction,

A clear up’s commenced

The land’s being cleansed,

And powerless, we watch

The eviction.

The Crat

The Crat (For Barney)

Dave, my old friend, had for years been away,

Caricaturing in Europe somewhere;

And on returning, he’d no place to stay,

No money, no food, no clean underwear.

The DHSS told him, when he applied,

“Come back in three months”, denying his claim;

As such, he was homeless; sleeping outside,

With only a bag of soiled clothes to his name.

Reclining his head on that pillow, he lay,

Underneath salvaged damp cardboard each night;

Passing the time in the library by day,

Catching sleep, stolen by winter with spite;

And as for eating, though he never said,

I’d hazard to guess: he begged for his bread.

Be that as it may; a charity gave

Him a sleeping bag, with kindly intent,

Though a tent would’ve been better, said Dave;

No matter; that night, to the farm he went,

Where lately, he’d taken to sleeping up close

To a cowshed, from which heating flowed free;

Enough to take the edge off winter’s blows;

A Godsend, at least to one such as he.

Snuggled-up-tight, and on the point of sleep,

He dreamily observed a cat, close by,

Cautiously approaching, as if to peep

At the heap that looked to be warm and dry,

And which Dave was more than happy to share

With a cat, as a child would a Teddy Bear.

I wish I could say he befriended the cat,

But alas, that would be mere fantasy;

The cat was more like a very LARGE rat!

A rodent wild beast, in reality…

…But as for what Dave was forced to endure,

I’ll leave it to your imagination;

Urging you on to the caricature

Of a hybrid of rat and cat persuasion,

Surprising a lonely destitute soul,

Like a jump-scare, in a horror-film scene;

If only the creature could have been whole;

A cat, not a rat, nor something between:

Companionship is a mutual need,

Albeit doomed to remain unfulfilled;

More equally mutual, fear takes the lead,

The caricature heads back to the field,

And the human, in want of a cuddle,

Gathers his things and leaves in a muddle.

The Ghost of Clacton

The Ghost of Clacton

The ghost of Clacton, much revered,

Disappeared and reappeared;

And how the little people cheered;

In hope he would remain.

Then in a flash he made a dash,

To crash the presidential bash;

All over Donald like a rash,

He looked to be again.

But Musk had tweeted in-between

And made a scene, since last he’d been,

Hence Donald, now no longer keen,

(Indeed if he was ever),

Dismissed as toast, the doting ghost,

(Whom he, the host, still loved the most,

Or so the ghost was wont to boast),

And left him to the weather.

The ghost, in spite of wounded pride,

Took all in stride and sat outside,

Alongside Tories, each denied

A coveted invitation.

He then withdrew, and back he flew

To where they threw a hero’s due,

And after but a day or two,

He set off on vacation.

(an acrostic)

(an acrostic)

E very so-often, a figure appears,

L arger than life, egotistical,

O utrageously wealthy, full of ideas,

N arcissistic; a very influential,

M agnetic, ambitious, charismatic,

U niter of masses, appealer of pride,

S ower of doubt; a ruthless, enigmatic,

K nower of kings and emperors worldwide.

I ntellectuals, morons, rich and poor

S ucked into believing every utterance,

A ttend rallies and cheer, with evermore

N ationalistic fervour, wilful ignorance,

A dmiration, and even religious

Z ealotry; fuelled by a superstitious

I ntolerance t’ward the non-indigenous.

C ometh these dictators, we live and die

U nder the cosh, and after they’ve gone say,

N ever again, as the ghosts of soldiers sigh;

T urning in their graves on Remembrance Day.

KISS

KISS

KISS played a gig at Wembley Arena,

Back when it was called The Empire Pool,

And when ticket fees were fairer, leaner,

London pub prices more affordable,

And train-travel, cheaper beyond recall;

Though tonight Rob drove, whilst we in the back,

Opened and drank a Special-Brew six-pack.

Upon arrival, I being quite pissed,

Rob parked his van; I don’t remember where;

We walked past a pub I couldn’t resist,

Steve and I had a few bevvies in there,

And after we left, I didn’t much care

One way or the other, whether I saw

KISS or not, I just wanted to drink more.

We staggered and swayed along Wembley way,

Found an offy; Jack Daniels I bought,

And throwing the empty bottle away,

Entered the Pool with my drunken escort;

Made an American angry, distraught;

I asked him how far he’d flown to get here,

Having knocked over his overpriced beer.

Somehow we made it to the highest tiers,

And caught the tail end of Bon Jovi’s set,

The songs of which meant nothing to my ears,

Nor the band, who I’d never heard of as yet,

Still playing as I, struggling to get

To the bar, stumbled and fell like a clown

Into the stewards, who sat me back down.

KISS came on playing minus the face-paint,

(Not a song; I mean they weren’t wearing any),

And we, both deciding: KISS fans we aint,

Asked of ourselves simultaneously:

“Who the fuck are KISS”? left ‘em to the many,

Made a sharp-exit, got paralytic,

And sat at the kerbside frankly pathetic.

They found us in the brotherly embrace

Of partners in drink, tight as Siamese twins;

I must have crashed out, but in any case,

Next thing I recall is the rubbish bins

Outside my flat, and beyond that

…More tins,

More bottles, more pubs, more nights on the piss,

But NEVER regret, for not seeing KISS.