The Man Behind the Curtain
My father used to tell me that your brain is sat behind you
pulling strings laced through your fingers and your eyes,
itching you and twitching at your lips to make you say things
to distract your curiosity and keep you satisfied.
Your brain needs you to think that it’s not there until you use it
and it gets you to forget you ever do.
It grows a little bigger every time you feel it working
but that makes it wrinkle up against itself to hide from you.
It tells you that you use your skin to touch, your tongue to taste,
and something called your soul for something else.
It’s told you not to ask what makes them work and you believe it
’cause you don’t want to ask how it knows
what you don’t know yourself.
Your brain just lets you rest and lifts you up and puts you down.
It’s your creator but it hates to spoil the show.
Don’t look too long or cut beneath the surface ’cause it hurts.
Your brain knows what it’s doing and that’s all you need to know.
Some of the gays want to get married
and we’re shoving it down your throat.
We’re making a stink, yelling at you to think
and cringe. We’re on our knees, begging you to vote,
nudging you and slipping you the ballot for legalised
fudging and lady-things with fingering that
you don’t want to learn just yet and
asking you to tick it,
shoving it in your Facebook page, picketing
your inbox and sticking it in your head.
It’s a pain in the arse.
And we know you’re okay with the gays. You’ve no fear
if we’re here and queer, and everyone’s used to it
now but now we want you to thumbs-up our petitions
if you know what I mean.
We’re rubbing our issues on your television
screen, wiping your politics clean with Vaseline
and all because we want some daft special day,
a ticker-tape parade with our balls and chains
and lips smacked all over it – ruin our lives, as you say,
making you our heterosexual guests, asking you to
shake our ring-fingered hands, eat up our cakes
and just say live and let live. Say it’s okay
because it’s you that has to. At the end of the day
it’s still up to you to give us away, to give it up and
let us have our way, leave us free to do
whatever it is we really do behind closed doors,
without your eyes and tuts and paws and more
all over us.
That’s in your hands
and we don’t like it.
We don’t know where they’ve been!
It creeps us right out.
Some people want to get married.
About the poet:
Chris Buchanan recently graduated with an English and Creative Writing BA (Hons). He is Bolton born and bred and spends his free time writing and bothering the local poetry circuit.