celebrating and creating our own LGBT history in honour of Sheila McWattie

Archive for February, 2014

day twenty four

Oldest Silence

 

 

She calls me up she says she needs to stay in my house

she poses questions I don’t seem to need to think about

She said you know that if we do this we do this good

I smiled and passed the cigarette

I was too scared to look

And although I’ve been drinking this is serious

And although I’ve been drinking it’s not why I’m delirious

And I’ve been drinking but you’ve always been delicious

In your heart and soul

In your mind and your goals

I’ve always known

That’s you’re my oldest silence

My oldest secret here

And all I ask is that all the pieces fit

It’s the biggest ask I’ve ever asked myself

Joanna do this well

And so the stars align hold hands and form a path

I find myself dancing any dance you ask

I know I’ve danced into spaces of two

I promise ill do my best do both of you

You’re my oldest silence

My oldest secret here

And all I ask is that all the pieces fit

It’s the biggest ask I could ever ask myself

Joanna do this well

 

 

 

 

Jo Hook, 39, Canterbury

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day twenty three

part one

The white garden

“So does that mean I won’t be a granny?”

I nodded as I lowered my head, heavy head, heavy-heartful of what-might-have-beens

Mum shook her head and looked away

and our sad streaming tears found home in the cracks of the park bench we clung to.

 

Self – insemination was not in my pack of cards, not then.

“It’s a difficult path you’ve chosen for yourself”,

mum dabbed her eyes and dabbed her eyes again with a tissue now soggy

her voice now shaken

“an’ I worry for you”.

 

Coming out to my mum in the walled white garden, in the company of peony, pansy and

gerbera daisy, I’d planned to sing joyfully, leave her with at least a tingle of my hopes and

dreams.

Instead loss was beating on the walls of the cord that joined us.

 

I stared in to skies of blue and saw the grey green flash of a chaffinch. 

 

part two

Big boy

Our granddaughter laughs, “no, you’re a big boy!”

Three years old, there’s no arguing with that.

And arguments I’ve had a few

“Do you need help packing, sir?” in the supermarket queue

Altercations there’ve been some

“You look so much nicer in a skirt!”, that’s my mum

Washing dishes on the beach hut wall

“Good to see a man working”, chuckles the old gal

Motorway toilets –  they’ve got to be the best

“You’re in the wrong toilet!” so I bare my breast

Depositing money in to my own bank account

Teller says, “That’s lovely Mr Thomson, tell your wife that’s the right amount

To avoid going in to overdraft

You have to laugh

Now I’m a husband, married to myself

Fantastico, not been left on the shelf

I’m starting to have fun in the world today

Apply the odd ‘tache, darken eyebrows and play

at being cowboy, soldier, giving bristly kisses

the ladies seem to like it, with the exception of me missis

who knows better than most……….

that I’m all woman,  her handsome woman

But our granddaughter’s wise

Big worldly eyes

What’s she picking up?

I prefer a mug to a cup?

Lego to dolly?

Hood up, not brolly?

Is it my stance?

The way I dance?

We’ve climbed an apple tree together

My belt is chunky leather

Our granddaughter laughs, “no, you’re a big boy!”

Then, “you’re a woman”

And before she nods off, she strokes my face, “you’re Nanny Fiona”

Three years old, there’s no arguing with that.

           

Fiona Thomson, 53, Margate

day twenty two

Nuts

 

We met in an Allergies Anon chatroom, the latest online dating site for Dykes that Don’t. It was love at first latte (a soy low fat, of course). I loved the way her glasses steamed up over the mug, and she loved the way my jugs stood up inside my top!

 

We agreed to cohabit at mine, what with it being above the organic foodstore. She was living a few doors up from a kebab shop, the smell of hot grease played havoc with her sinuses.

 

She kept her place on for a bit, a last ditch grasp at feigned independence. But after 3 months, she put it on the market, where it was snapped up almost immediately by a well known coffee chain. She made a killing. So, that was it, we were stuck together like 2 peas in a pod, and that’s when it all started.

 

Despite meeting on Dykes That Don’t, I hadn’t quite appreciated how much ‘don’t’ there was going to be in our relationship.

 

“Don’t put your goat’s cheese by my tofu burger … Shine your shoes outside, the animal products …” and so on.

 

To be fair, I have my idiosyncrasies, but I’m sure that soya marg, asthma inhalers and veggie sausages can’t be that intrusive?

 

And then came the day when it really did get all too much.

 

“And what exactly is this doing here?” she pointed in disgust at the dish I’d prepared as a surprise for our nine month anniversary.

 

How was I supposed to know they’d braised the tofu steak in pine nuts? She went blue in the lips, became short of breath, went white as a sheet and then crumpled to her knees. She gasped and gestured towards the medic alert box on the side.

 

Momentarily shocked out of my usual diatribe when faced with a conflict, I handed her the case. She proceeded to unwrap and inject herself with the adrenalin pen. She didn’t need an ambulance. Not that time.

 

So, I’m sitting here in a café with my soy decaf sugar-free low-fat low-GI cappuccino, and she’s over half an hour late, with no sign of an explanatory or apologetic text.

 

I guess she must have found the nice bowl of pecan muesli I left her out for breakfast.

 

 

Annabel Pribelszki, Brighton

 

 

 

 

day twenty two

He? It? She!

 

That *awkward* relationship.

Standing in the bus shelter.

Speaking highly of your lover.

“What happened to your boyfriend?”

Well I guess he went undercover,

Once she climbed out of the closet.

 

“Oi mate check this lad out”

Her top’s a little tight,

I can bet you they have noticed.

Her jaw line strikes my attraction.

But only their lurid attention.

Almost like that “newspaper”,

And failing “entertainment” they are viewing.

 

I’m almost tired of hearing,

“Why she’s sitting on your lap love?”

Perhaps because I have more to offer.

Than some inconsiderate genital featured face.

Or in your terminology;

“Gayboi”.

 

And I’m moaning and I’m whining,

“So why not stay at home?”

To avoid that painful conversation.

When awkward are your relations.

And they approach your space without thinking.

Only to give no question in audio,

Because they don’t believe it plausible.

When we should come far from being her and him? Or it?

 

Siobahn Deborah, 24, Canterbury

 

22nd January 2014

©TwiceTheTaste Poetry (of Siobhan Deborah) 2014

http://twicethetaste.wordpress.com/

 

 

 

day twenty one

Bristol, 1967

 

History

When does it start?

Then, like always,

It was toilets.

I stood.

He stood.

I glanced down,

He did too.

Eyes meet; a grim, resigned, relieved smile.

Extend the moment. Wash hands.

Together, with a tsunami of silence,

We climb the steps (please don’t leave me);

Reach the top (SAY SOMETHING!);

“Want to walk?” (Thank you, God!)

With names we capture each other.

We speak of the weather, the church, the situation, the guilt.

Then a quiet explosive,

“I can’t help it. I know I’m homosexual”.

Like

‘Let there be light’

Like

‘I have a dream’

Like

‘No man is an island’

Verbal history is created.

Mine, now also visual, branded on my sleeve, without escape, and unremoveable.

History has begun.

 

 

 

Roger Newman, Margate

day twenty

Her dreams of a fairy tale white wedding, to a handsome, successful, independently wealthy Philosophy or English Literature lecturer, who had been a swimming champion in his School and University days (with a Bronzed Adonis physique as a result), 2.4 children, both with romanticised Celtic names with unpronounceable spellings, white cottage with dreamy garden and brace of effervescent Labradors (One chocolate and one black), all by the age of 25, had not only vanished, they had been roundly ground to dust and had disappeared into the corners of the sofa of life.

She sat staring out the window of the train from Glasgow Central to London Euston, wishing that the guy opposite would stop imitating a Friesian by chewing his gum with his gormless, open-mouthed and vacuous expression. Worst of all, people kept assuming they were a couple, the stewards speaking to them both at the same time while regurgitating the menu, or offering drinks.

The lights outside punctuated the gloom in her mind, as they flew past, illustrating random habitations that would remain unnamed. At least the complimentary wine was quaffable. As was some of the view at least! There were at least two very fuckable women on board her carriage, along with one guy that was making her drool. So drink in the view she did! That was, however, where it stopped. Much like sitting in a fine restaurant, but being on medication that required meal times to be strictly observed, and not when you are there, she wouldn’t be able to sample the fare! She was quite firmly off the market. And not through any choice or commitment, but simply that she had reached that point in life when to be with someone else was far too inconvenient and complicated matters inordinately more than was necessary.

Besides, who in their right mind would want to take her on, with her small warehouse of baggage and unfeasibly high standards in a potential partner? The baggage and the high standards we will come to later, however, when you match these aspects with an unfalteringly crap choice in partners, an inability to read the most blatant of signs and the self confidence of a juvenile pony beside the M25 at 6pm on a weekday, it becomes much less surprising that she had just spent yet another Christmas and New Year single, and but for the kindness and pity of her family, alone.

The train ploughed on into the darkness. The ‘Train Manager’[1] swayed along the aisle checking tickets. She looked around at the other passengers while Ed Sheeran played his cheeky/melancholy juxtaposition sounds in her ears. Across the aisle was a young man that looked particularly virile, though she strongly suspected he would be less than engaging once they were laying, panting into the bedroom air. He was Mr Right Now, as opposed to Mr Right. The Friesian was still trying, vigorously, to reduce the same piece of chewing gum to molecules. Two seats up on either side sat the women that would form the focus for an amazing threesome fantasy later that night, we’ll call them threesome a and b. It must be understood that she was aware that they are far more than just numbered fantasy items, she just didn’t need to delve that far to benefit from their presence in her thoughts. (And of course there was always the possibility that Mr Right Now would dander into the bedroom of her subconscious while her, a and b were getting funky.)

Yet again alone with her thoughts, she wandered off into the, darker, recesses of her imagination.


[1] Why the fuck they were called Train Managers now was entirely beyond her, although someone, somewhere must have justified the exorbitant cost of the changes to years old manuals and publications to the Board of Directors of ‘UK Rail Inc’ as a damned fine idea.

Kelly Tonks, 40, Folkestone

day nineteen

Lesbian Laptop Life

 

 

Looking for some ocado food to shift my virtual mood

Then looking at a pink sofa virtual girlfriend on my screen

Dancing to some you tube tunes around my bedroom

My porn hub moves are virtually obscene

 

My virtual job is paying a virtual salary

Whilst I am pointlessly occupied on twitter

Escaping into a virtual shop

Enabling Amazon to get much richer

 

Whilst I slowly kill myself with inactivity

My brain feeds on Facebook drivel

I need to divorce my service provider soon

I’m gonna tell them to virtually swivel!

 

 

 

 

Kerry Mitchell, 50, Brighton