Poetry

Some people (my parents) have expressed interest in seeing the poems that have so dazzled the Australian public of Yarra House. And, as I always aim to please, here ya go:

All About the Chickens


We've all been there, now and then
We need to let down our hair, sniff a pen
Try meditation if we're really feeling zen
But we get overzealous
And the neighbours become jealous
And he comes over to tell us
To 'keep the noise down!' or, in this case, devour us whole
And things get out of control
Cos he's acting like a tool and the marker takes its toll
And tables overturn so easily now-a-days
And, since the word can burn, well, suddenly there's a blaze
And all the words he churns, you can't hear him through the haze
And you start to think 'wouldn't it be better, if this poor old sod was dead?'
Yes, because nobody would miss him, no, no tears would be shed
It would be an act of mercy, just like smothering him in bed
....
and I swear this is all about the chickens

So you take him and you beat him, yes, you beat him black and blue-
And cos you never really liked him, you chop him into two
And then you feed him through the lawnmower, which you know he stole from you

I swear this is all about the chickens

So, we're beating and we're grinding, yes, we're really having fun
But then we start to see the light of early morning sun
And people will be waking up and seeing what we've done
So, you take your cue to exit, and leg it out of town
Check into a motel and dye your hair light brown
And you're reading out some poetry, seeing all the faces
And you realised you haven't killed anyone for ages and ages and ages
So, if anyone would like to see me, after the show tonight
Meet me in the alley, out back, out of sight,
And if you do, I swear you will be alright

After all, this was all about the chickens

The Red String

There's a string around my finger
Coloured brightly red
I've seen that colour in your lips
And in my body, when I've bled

There's a string around my finger
Tied right at the tip
It binds us close together
Like an anchor to its ship

There's a string around my finger
And when I pull it taught
I can hear your heart beat
I can read your thoughts

There's a string around my finger
Which I'm going to untie
Because fate is not the boss of me
And you are not a guy

The Closet

Mother
How long have we known each other?
Stupid question. The answer is, of course, all my life
Now, in that time, you may have noticed that I have never mentioned taking a wife
And some people, evidently not you,
Might have seen that as a clue
That the taking of a wife is not the sort of thing I ever plan to do
No, Mum, not because I want to be a monk,
It's cos I'm holding out for a hunk!
Mother, don't you see? Your entire gender is invisible to me
Oh, don't get sad, you raised me right-
Pull out chairs and be polite-
But, Mum, the boobs, the hair, the voice,
It is not my look of choice
I need somewhere more rough and manly to roll my royce
Johnny Depp, James Marsters, Jude Law
The thought of all these men and more
Are what really get me...
*Ahem* So, in conclusion,
And to avoid confusion
This is not a phase. I've always been this way-
I'm still the son you know and love, it just so happens I'm gay