No Homo and Other Poems

by Ollie Charlies

[cw: sexual imagery]

no homo 

have you ever heard a man say,

i listen to will young,

but i’m not gay,

no homo.

i mean,  

just because you read men’s health, 

doesn’t mean you have a six pack, 

no homo.  

in the sweat smeared mirror, 

at the local gym, 

hearing ay your arms look tight mate, 

and you enjoyed being stared at, 

no homo.  

or watching angelina jolie, 

in a tight tank top, shorts, 

and boots, 

doesn’t mean you’re a woman, 

or you raid tombs.

there’s no empirical data that correlates, 

listening to will young, 

or watching say rupert everett, 

as homo. 

but actually, 

aren’t we all homo? 

homo from the latin, 

to mean man, 

which in itself is troubling,  

because why is the homo sapien,  

wise man, 

when we aren’t all wise or man?  

don’t get me started, 

on the homo erectus

because, 

in my eyes, 

you don’t stand upright. 

and homo from the greek, 

to mean same,  

as in homosexual, 

as in the same as you. 

but why do you get to choose, 

which root you can shame me with, 

if we all come from the same root, 

all homo. 

 

if you have the science, 

to show a correlation between listening to will young, 

and being a homo, 

please show me. 

no homo. 

there you lie

on the cusp of it all

glen, not yet a man

still dreaming

in your number ten

taut skin, flat stomach

the shiver of anticipation

which surges through me even now and

in daydreams, flesh i can touch

and should you wonder where people go when they die

you drink up till morning

lost in the clouds of the dark night sky

lost to the hands of the bogeyman

lost and falling through nightmarish lands

blue tracksuit till my eyes are lost

wondering what lies beneath

the folds of the material

awash with expectation

and splendour   

a small waist to make my hunger grow

call out in the darkness

rubbing through the fabric where i reveal all my secrets

still soaked in the morning dew

with the same leaking

and the same shame

and the contempt of calling out your name and

placing my hand

on your cold, hard flesh

and remembering we are most likely doomed

take off your top, your blue tracksuit

that thin line of hair from belly button down   

and still i fall and fold and find myself beneath your layers

lost still to the bogeyman and the nightmare of it all

for glen lantz, the third victim of freddy krueger

search

i quietly close the door,

it’s open just a creak,

just enough so i can hear anyone outside.

i can turn the monitor off, close the windows quickly.

i’ve memorised the keyboard shortcuts

so i can minimise without even looking at the keys.

i can erase my entire internet history.

i can leave no trace.

with the tap of a key i can log out of msn messenger

and no one would know i was there.

but sometimes i’ll get up the nerve

to type into the search bar:

[name of actor] gay

or

[name of actor] nude

usually i’ll end up downloading,

a fake picture from a forum,

badly done.

someone’s used microsoft paint

to cut out gary lucy‘s head

and stick it onto a naked body.

i’ll stare at the picture for a long time,

to try and persuade myself that it’s real.

or they’ve grabbed a lo-res screen shot,

from that adam rickett music video,

where he’s naked in a perspex box,

and if the lighting is just right,

my imagination can run wild.

or elliott tittensor shameless,

running about in his boxers,

his seraphic smile and curtain like fringe.

and if i pause it just quick enough,

robbie williams rock dj music video naked,

his hairy chest and

the tease of his dark pubic hair,

just before he peels all his skin off.

and i examine pictures from films i’ve never seen

that i return to time and again;

linus roache robert carlyle kissing priest 1994

marc warren lee williams no night is too long 2002

luke treadaway paul nicholls clapham junction 2007.

and i try hard not to think about these searches too much,

not that i have anyone to share them with.

it doesn’t seem right,

or normal,

until the next time i stare at that flickering cursor on screen,

beckoning me to

search  

Ollie Charles (he/him) is a queer writer who explores gender, identity, sexuality, celebrity and pop culture within his work. He is currently working on his first novel, a satire of the fashion industry as well as his first poetry collection. Ollie is a placed writer in the 2020 streetcake experimental writing prize, features in Inkandescent’s upcoming short story collection, MAINSTREAM and was published recently by Lucky Pierre Zine. Ollie is also co-founder of Untitled, a literary salon for underrepresented writers as well as co-editor of Untitled: Voices, a global online journal, launched during 2020’s lockdown.

Twitter: @OllieCharles