Gay Poetry - Tumblr Posts

The invention gently aroused in his pants is heavenly.

Budding passion when least expected. Best friends getting closer than ever before. Liking it.

Pure male sexual ecstasy. Masculine without losing delicate magic.

When playful dudes stop inhibiting their sexual desires. Heaven opens its sexy gates.

The sun continues to rise but it lacks the life it used to possess

“Your name is Icarus and you will do anything you can to reach him You fly high Your waxen wings feeling as sturdy as steel as you soar into the clouds Reaching for the sun

Your name is Apollo and you reach down Trying to catch the boy flying towards you His skin is dark and his hair a mess of curls and you hope You hope that this angel’s wings will hold

Your name is Icarus and you will be damned if your father does not approve His wings have long since failed him and his life has no say in yours You stare straight into the sun knowing that even if it blinds you it will be the most beautiful thing You will ever see

Your name is Apollo and you are the sun that shines and the bird that sings and you will not See this boy fall Your only desire is to hold him Your only want is to touch him Your only prayer is to feel him Him Him Him

Your name is Icarus and you tried to reach for god You try to meet him even when you know you could burn You know you could fall All you want is to hold his hand in your palm His lips against yours His breath on your neck His His His

Your name is Apollo and you have fallen for Icarus

Your name is Icarus and you have flown too close to the sun

Your name is Apollo and you will catch him

Your name is Icarus and you cannot be caught

Your name is Apollo and godhood is not worth this

Your names are Icarus and Apollo and you are a boy and the sun

Your names are Icarus and Apollo and the ocean boils around you

Your names are Icarus and Apollo and you finally are able to hold, to touch, to feel

Your names are Icarus and Apollo and you have no need to be the world’s sons as long as you have each other

Your name is Icarus and you have grasped the sun

Your name is Apollo and you have caught him”

                                                                             -Jackson Purcell

I lost track of the wounds

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was the one you gave me

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was you

In the end

It was the betrayal that slaughtered me

Before the blood loss

When your eyes sliced into my soul

Puncturing the vital organ

I was dead before your blade parted flesh

Ghost before my body hit the ground

~

In the end

My final breath

An exhale of your name

That still tasted like home on the tounge

My blood forgetting to be afraid

In your familar palms

~

But if I am spirit

Why I am the one haunted?

By you

Or some part of you that perished

With me

Begging for mercy

I do not know how to grant you

~

And if you lived

Why did I find you

Haunting your own shell

When I returned to

Forgive you

~

~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips

Everyone says they would rather skip the small talk

Get to the deep stuff

The important things

As though the little things are not the entrance to the heart

The cracks and crevices not the softer way

To make home in ones affection

Over breaking open the ornate doors

Of their chambers

Leaving them bleeding out

So tell me

How you take your eggs

And that ponytails make your scalp itch

Tell me how long it takes you to drive to work

And where you like to sit on the train

Talk to me about weather

And about how you keep forgetting to take out the trash

So that one day when I show up with a cup of tea just the way you like it

And we talk the long path home

Just past the mural you love on 22nd street

You will know

Just how important

The little things are

To me

When they belong to you

~ i met her in September

Phone poem

23 March 2023

Black hairs around a black hole

Father death, mother life

I patrol gin alley with my aviation and feather boa

To break up an assault

Or bend over for a sailor

A foghorn booms

“Doomscroll doomscroll”

And at Whitman’s house

we compare notes on men’s bodies

Gay boy Monday

Puffy beige jackets and seldom worn shoes

Nunhead couple

Chiselled Asian in a long black coat

Jo(e)

I see them as the train passes

Then trying to catch up

Past the kid’s plastic kitchen unit

A 100 metres behind

At home

I’m a sextoy

For my sextoy

And Jimmy, the sweet

Ratfaced boy

The Blind Begging Fool

God loves all, truer words have never been spoken by a blind begging fool. A fool who sits on the side of the road content with his life bc he thinks that he is king of his mountain. Yet not knowing his mountain are the limbs left there by the passer byes who listened to his cursed words coated with leprosy disguised as ambrosia. It doesn’t matter what words fall from his mouth as long as he says it’s from God. Praise my god, praise my god. Well your god be dammed my God wouldn’t leave me to my sins and say you are unclean. God wouldn’t sit there and do nothing while children cry at night and wonder where salvation is. Sometime I wonder if mysterious works is just another name for humanity. Bc what would you call something that says it will change the world only to stand at its borders and say go in peace. Projecting the scratch upon the surface of a coffin saying, look at what I did. Did you even bother to knock on it too bc I’m sure I heard sob of a child when you turned away before the final amen. But when the truth came to your desk in the form of paper work, you said it was God’s will. The same will that causes a young girl to question where she’ll sleep tonight bc her mother brought her home in blue instead of pink. Bc before she falls asleep tonight in the cold street it was your gods will that the last thought to race her mind were her mother’s words of…I hate you. But hey, another broken hearted corpse to add to your mountain of Martyrs. So praise high foolish begger, bc your blind blasphemy creates a wildfire to burn down the homes of others so they can join in on self pity. Truly God must love all, bc He still sees hope for the blind begging fool.

It's fine

I’m going through a lot right now. I have realized that I am one of those people who, for whichever reason, feel as if they are undeserving of affection. Well I’m here to say, if you feel like that, it’s fine. It’s fine that you have walls up. It’s fine that you made your heart a little harder and your skin a little thicker. It’s fine that you can’t handle being in a relationship because in the past a boy broke your heart and now you have trust issues. It’s fine because you’re not alone. This doesn’t mean that you will end up a grumpy old person because you never found love. This means that someone really amazing is going to tear down your walls with nothing but a look and while you hide behind the rubble sobbing from vulnerability. When they find you they’ll hold you until you understand they want you for who you are, no matter how much you struggle. One day a man or woman will show you kindness that you didn’t think still existed in the human race. You’ll find that the ice queen or king, who you thought called your heart home, melted away long ago. It just takes a warm smile to melt the snow away too.

Band-Aid

I use to write about love as if it was something from heaven above. Now that I am older I have seen that it is just a Band-Aid. Band-Aid to put over emotional scars and wounds that go deeper so much more deeper than the surface of the skin. Because as far as the world is concerned you haven’t been made whole until you cut yourself a part with the deepest of sin.

Now I see that a child innocence is no longer considered something to be treasured but something to be feared. Cause what’s more scarier than being told that the world is full of fairy tales only to learn that the villain is really who is followed and revered and that love doesn’t conquer all. Because if love is a Band-Aid I don’t want it. Because what sort of person would I be if I asked for a Band-Aid at the age of 20? Because growing up means that you don’t need a Band-Aid that you let it fester and rot because that’s what it means to be tough. And if you don’t like it then that’s rough. Because when you get older you learn that the world doesn’t serve you everything on a silver platter. And that band aid that you called love becomes nothing more than a twisted excuse of a satire. So again I say that if love is a Band-Aid I don’t want it. Because my wounds are so much deeper there isn’t a Band-Aid that you have that can cover up my cuts and bruises. Because if love is a Band-Aid then what happens when it comes off? You can still see the scar that’s left on the surface mocking you for your weakness. Sure did the trick when you were five or six because back then before your mother blew out the candle stick she said it’s fine everything’s going to be alright. There aren’t monsters under your bed that are going to come out at night. And you trusted her not knowing that she was feeding the lies that she had been taught to tell you before you sleep, because what could a mother say When she knows that there’s a wolf amongst her sheep. When you rest your pretty head in knowing that that Band-Aid would take all the pain away. You didn’t notice how it fell off every other day. So she would put one back on every cut and scrape that you got. Because her child was the only reason she could forget that on her back was a target spot. So again I say that if it love is a Band-Aid I don’t want it because I want to feel the pain that this world has given me because it gives me strength and wisdom to know about the wolf in sheep’s clothing that I pass on the street every day. Because the only way that Band-Aid can help me now is if it takes my eyes shut. So I didn’t see any more of what this world has to offer. Because I tasted Crow, given to me by a snake who already injected its venom into its blood. And in this world you either make your own antidote are you put a Band-Aid over it and tell yourself you’re fine, but if you do that you die. And the rest of us are already too old and broken down to cry.

I once fell in love. And I didn't stand a chance. And I don't even know her name and I've never seen her face. But I spent countless hours loosing my mind by choice. Basking in the honey dripping sound of her husky voice.

I've heard her live through births and deaths. I've heard her laugh through joys and sorrows. I know how she sounds when out of breath. And I know by heart the tones that follow. I've heard her scream from the top of her lungs. I know her voice when it shamelessly quivers. And I know how 'I love you' tastes on her tongue. I've heard her whisper it under the covers.

I've even heard her sing. Oh, God, I've heard her sing!

And I know that I shouldn't. And I know she wasn't meant for me. But sometimes my mind wonders.

And I imagine All that we could be.