November 22, 2014

Bye Bye Lingual – by Marc Nash

(c) Marc Nash, 30 Oct 2014

I was the last in my line. The final native speaker of my language. It would die out with me since none would follow. For I had neither progeny nor converts. The concept of converts is a ridiculous one anyway, we ought solely to be learning our mother tongue at our mother’s knee. Our language doesn’t even have a word for ‘convert’.

Not that I haven’t striven my hardest. I’ve played on the emotional appeal of our tribe in peril without our indigenous tongue. I’ve tried to cajole, seduce, flatter and bully, again all to no avail. My kithmen refuse to have me pour our words into their cloth ears. The ewer holding our vernacular is cracked and the word flow has dribbled away into the dust.

Our argot is an expressive one. Born of our rural roots, it is all facial articulation and gesture. It is simply impossible to dissimulate and deceive, unlike the measured blankness of the face that lies behind enunciation of the prevailing cant in these parts. There you can conceal anything and all meaning is shrouded and dissipated. So even though those I petition cannot understand my alien vocalisations, likely they can still glean my desperate hectoring of them. I can’t simultaneously smile and talk of our dying lexicon, the shape of the words simply will not permit me to. When I try and beseech them in their own language, they shrug and pronounce themselves happy with the pastel palette provided for by the dominant parlance. Our language has no word for ‘progress’ either. Yet it is the word that keeps being thrown back at me.

And it is true, my own tongue is diluted and collapsing under the weight of import words to deal with the modern world and its advances. This is why the mothers shunned nourishing their babes with it, for perennially looking backwards in what constructions it could furnish, it would fail to equip them for life. And as soon as it ceases being passed down the maternal line, then it takes very few generations for it to become extinct. And time is what I lack as I near my own expiration. Even if I found a willing candidate, time is too short for them to assimilate sufficiently sized a vocabulary to preserve the language as a workable one.

I’ve even ventured outside of our bloodline, entreating the sense of tragedy, the romantic, the exotic, the academic, the idle indexers, but with no takers. The academics suggested I might at least set it down in a lexicon where it might have a stab at being preserved in a dusty library stack. I pointed out to them that our language was an oral tongue only. It certainly didn’t abide by any written alphabetic characters and could never expect to be contained by a symbolic system. They shrugged and returned to perusing texts behind their half-moon glasses as they eclipsed the feeble rays of my hope.

This was how the sovereign language operated. It didn’t persecute either us, or our florid tongue. It let us be and was completely indifferent to whether we existed or not. And that was sufficient to fell us. We had no cause to rally to, no injustices to try and hew slogans to hurl at them. Which was just as well since our language didn’t lend itself to airy sloganeering. We just drifted over to the monolith that was this language so powerful, it didn’t have to broadcast its strengths and virtues. The virtue of possessing a greater muscularity than our own tongue. We paled by comparison with it. Our words became ghostly, tugging at the sleeve uselessly for address.

I am exhausted in my quest to find a lingual heir, as exhausted now as all the spent leads. I am so weary, the search has propelled my frail body closer towards death and yet I veer back from the precipice of annulment, by the knowledge I cannot extinguish my language by permitting myself to expire. And in those utterly defeated moments when I can do nothing but lie back in my chair and let the thoughts assail me, I wonder if I have been chosen to be yoked to the burden of being the last keeper of this particular tongue as some sort of punishment. Since we certainly have that concept in our vocabulary. My mother may have been the sole woman among her generation not to betray our race by passing on her language, but I myself may just have now forsaken us all. For as I said I have no progeny. I never took a wife. How was I supposed to know I was the last speaker of our kind when I pursued male lovers? For though I couldn’t dissemble, I was protected by another lacuna in our native tongue. Our language has no word for homosexuality.

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Marc Nash has published 4 novels and 4 collections of flash fiction. He lives and works in London.

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November 10, 2014

3 Poems – by P.A. deMatteo

(c) 2014, P.A. deMatteo

CARLOS

Carlos of southern boulevard,

Proud to be of puerto rican decent,  in the deepest,

Most utterly desperate section of the south south bronx,

Shot his first pubic hair

Back in april, cut it off, and actually displayed it in his cramped

Bedroom, for the love of Christ!

By july, he’d progressed, not so surprisingly, and

Was festering with

Isolation via

Having sex with an

Freshaved Ecuadorian shoplifter

Named Giovanni.

That’s when he started stealin’

His stepfather’s strong rum!

 

 

* * * *

Hard

USUALLY,

WHEN ONE OF THE GUYS GOT A BIT OR

A LOT HARD IN THE COMMUNAL SHOWERS AT DAVIES PREP. THEY JUST LAUGHED LIKE CRAZY LIKE IT WAS SOME SORT OF A JOKE & WIGGLED THEIR COCKS LIKE THERE WAS NO TOMORROW.

BUT,

WHEN ONE OF THE CLOSETED GAY

KIDS GOT FELT A HARD-ON COMIN’ ON, THEY USUALLY RAN FOR COVER TO THEIR LOCKER AND THEIR PANTS, BUT IT WAS USUALLY TOO LATE. CHRIS HAD A HUGE 8 INCHER WHEN HARD, AND BEING GAY, HE WAS CONSTANTLY PETRIFIED THAT HE WOULD GET A BONER EITHER IN THE LOCKER ROOM OR IN THE SHOWER. AS HE SOAPED HIMSELF UP QUICKLY, THE MOST GOOD-LOOKING HUNKS OF A STUDENTS, DINO SANTANGELLO AND MUHAMMED KHAN WALKED INTO THE SHOWER. THEY IGNORED HIM AND CHRIS STUDIED THEM OUT OF THE CORNER OF HIS EYES. DINO FLEXED HIS MUSCLES JOKINGLY AND MUHAMMED CUPPED HIS BALLS AND WIGGLED HIS COCK AS WELL. THEN, WITH GREAT MOCKERY, IT SEEMED, THEY TURNED THEIR CUSSED GLANCES TOWARD CHRIS, AND STARTED LAUGHING AT HIM, REMARKING UPON HIS BIG COCK.

A ‘NORMAL’ KID WOULD HAVE BEEN EXPECTED TO WIGGLE IT A BIT TO ADD TO THE FUN OF THE SITUATION, BUT IF HE DARED TO DO THIS, HE KNEW THAT HE’D BE COMPLETELY HARD IN SECONDS!! SO, INSTEAD, CHRIS COMPLETELY IGNORED THEM EVEN THOUGH HE THOUGHT THEY WERE BOTH GORGEOUS AND HE HAD MASTURBATED AND HAD GREAT SQUIRTS UPON FANTASIZING ABOUT THEM. IN ORDER TO AVOID A SCENE WHICH HIS POSSIBLE ERECTION WOULD CREATE, HE PANICKED A TAD AND WONDERED WHETHER HE WAS BETTER OFF REMAINING IN THE SHOWER OR WALKING OUT AND HAVING THE ENTIRE LOCKER ROOM VIEW THE TENT VIA THE TOWEL. SO, EVEN THOUGH CHRIS CONCENTRATED OH SO INTENSELY ON GETTING’ THE SOAP OFF, HE FELT HIS PENIS BEGIN TO STIFFIN EVEN THOUGH HE TRIED HIS MIGHTIEST………

 

THE TWO DIDN’T NOTICE HIM UNTIL

IT WAS STIFF AS A BOARD. THE TWO STARTED HOWLING WITH MALICIOUS GLEE. CHRIS DECIDED TO WIGGLE IT LIKE ONE OF THE ‘NORMAL’ KIDS WOULD DO BUT THIS ONLY SENT THE TWO ON A RAMPAGE THROUGH THE LOCKER ROOM.

* * * *

TRANSGENDERED

The transgendered woman wore a

Gray wig and wuz bone-thin + tall tall.

She gave not a damn about work ov any

Sort. She sold her voice on a porn-line and lived in east harlem, dancing her profits away at clubz.

Debauchery turn her on.

Plus, she was just startin’ to age a tad.

Her cheeks were fallin’ below her ever so

Voluptuous lips. Botox wasn’t an option,

Either, because the debauchery of the nightclubs was far more important.

 

Some Jamaican immigrant nurse from Kingston, employed at Bellevue,

Tried puttin’ the fear of the Good Lord and some sort of work ethic into her, but other than that, nobody but nobody gave an alligator’s tail or a rat’s ass!

 

Shame!

Shame!

Shame!

* * * *

P.A. deMatteo

  • During the late 1980’s, my poetry was published and featured in Manhattanite Harold Serban’s THE POETRY EDGE. I was also a regular reader at the Newyorican Poet’s Café but the late night hours and the ordeals of returning to the Bronx got the best of me.  A short story of mine entitled TONY diPASQUALE published in NUVEIN MAGAZINE. Currently, I have several poems accepted for GAY FLASH FICTION and INCLEMENT MAGAZINE.

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October 12, 2014

If Only – by Drew Payne

(c) Drew Payne, June 2010.

The bed was uncomfortable, the traction holding his broken leg restricted his movement, and his leg was hurting. Tony knew there wasn’t any point in calling for a nurse, he still couldn’t have any more painkillers, but he considered it. Max, the short blonde, male nurse, was looking after him today; Max was handsome and caring. He could do with Max’s attention.

He hated being in hospital.

If he hadn’t gone out that night he wouldn’t be in here. Jackson’s Field was a piece of common ground that had been neglected for years, but ideal for cruising. He’d been lonely and frustrated, hoping for a little company, so he’d gone there.

If he hadn’t followed that guy, Tony wouldn’t have been led into an ambush by a bunch of queer bashers. Four men had fallen upon him, blows and insults raining down on him. It had seemed to last forever, eventually they did stop and walked away; but he couldn’t move or call for help, the pain made it impossible. It wasn’t until the next morning that he was found and taken to hospital.

If his relationship with Alan had survived then he wouldn’t have needed to go out cruising on Jackson’s Field, but it hadn’t. He’d had to return home, when his father had his second stroke, and that had finished his relationship (His brother “couldn’t” look after their father). They had tried a long-distance relationship but Alan had soon grown tired of it. Tony would have waited forever, not Alan.

If his father would agree to go into a home, but he wouldn’t. Tony was stuck with looking after his father’s shop and his father, as the old man’s health and mind failed. As his father’s mind deteriorated the homophobia poured out of him. Tony was now “you little queer”, no warmth left there.

If only he was straight, like his brother, he wouldn’t be in this mess. But that thought was crazy. His brother, with his five sullen children and his needy wife, was no ideal. His brother had had three affairs but still his wife wouldn’t leave him, Tony didn’t want that life, but was his any better?

Then Max appeared in his room, cleaning his hands and smiling.

“How are you?” Max asked.

“My leg’s bad,” Tony replied.

“Then we’ll have to do something about that.”

The next moment Max was busily tending to him, making him more comfortable in that bed. Just getting more comfortable seemed to ease some of the pain. He smiled his thanks to Max. This man, in his soft and caring way, was obviously gay, yet Max seemed happy.

If only he was like Max, happy and attractive, with a life he enjoyed, Tony wouldn’t be in this position.

As Max checked his chart, saying something about painkillers, Tony wanted to reach up and touch Max’s face, just brush his fingers over Max’s smooth skin.

But he didn’t…

 

~~~~~~

Drew Payne 

  • I have had stories published in the anthologies, The Monster in My Closet (Sullivan Publishing House), Image Out Write 2012, Eros at Large (Paradise Press), Boys in Bed and Finished by Hand (Both Xcite Books). My essay, More Then Just Making Beds and Emptying Bedpans, was published in the 2010 anthology Nurses on the Run. I have had short stories published in the magazines Chroma, ScotsGay, Creative Week, ‘Indie Scene’andGazebo Magazine; and on the websites Gay Flash Fiction, Velvet Mafia, Thick Jam, 1000 Words and The New Flash. I am also a regular contributor to FS Magazine, a National Men’s Health magazine, NRC, Nursing Times and Nursing Standard, Britain’s leading nursing publications, and for the Nursing Standard I have three times been a guest editor. Sketches I’ve written have been performed in the Treason Show, the Brighton based satirical review show, and the London based Newsrevue, the world’s longest running live comedy show.

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