Christopher Barnes

Wish Fulfilment
or Lament For The Rut In Male Fashion



In clock-back stardust
                         they pant.
A lion's share of peacocks?




Windscheffel And Stride's Day Out



Tender-conscienced ones
from Graybine Hospital's storms
bounce into Summerly's Snax.

There's rifts today.
You have untingled the world through lithium,
straggled,
wished for filtered tea.

A moderato's timbrelling (or a pomegranate
wriggling at the ear). Ah sound!




Windows In The Chelsea



a darker sun sets in the heart
than any that lit
The Chelsea Hotel

I'm crying for Mama
I'm crying for Adonis

tears, alphabets of tears
heavier than overdosing
on kosmic H-bomb blues

where cheap blades hide
under velvet undergrounds
and sleep sharpens
killer TVs slickered
like electric Barbara Cartlands
uncrownable Gorgons of the uncounted hour

someone cries for Mama
someone cries for Adonis

drugstreams in blood dance
bluesing through veins

islands of death, de-tox and shells
corroding rocks, fragmenting lies
and the S & M libido monkey
out of its tree
a brain with instincts
juices and smells
vomited out
riding a shaking-bellied Horse
smelling of southern race riots

no-one's idea of comfort
cowering beneath the naked bulb




Wife


before he was her
his wife was whale-buttocked
sandwiched
like a great Lynda-burger
between settee and plasti-grass

mayonnaised in all the domesticity
of a flannelette dressing-gown
they used to even talk

over zoology and the diets of bats
a cherry-menthol roll-up smouldered
in between gulps of comfort
and an off-white frown

sometimes she stood up
zipped his sexuality up to the eye
and hooked together their stays





When Something Is Wrong With My Baby


The evening has a thousand pieces
and we and the songs on the radio
are just some of them.
I unbutton his indulgent shirt, submit
a hand, fasten on the left nipple.
Hum the familiar refrain. We twist
with the lingering purr of music.

An hour is a number of heartbeats,
full motion from the car's heater, a number
of glances. Being gay, he is tremulous
to prove his devotion openly,
the clatter of jackboots
always expected…above the guitar.





Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

I have also got a BBC webpage http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay/2004/section28.shtml




James Garry Christopher Barnes Jennifer Thompson Tom Savage Sam Vaknin Dave Ruslander S. Simpkins Maggie Zhou Maria Claudia Faverio