F.E. Feeley Jr.'s Blog, page 11
December 8, 2017
Wickedness put down on me (Poem)
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There was a wickedness
put down on me
when I was but a child
evil serpentine lashes lay about
with cold metal teeth,
smelling of leather
and containing many eyes
It was black
and it’s bite burned me
my young flesh welting
bleeding, forcing me
to do things I didn’t want to do
breaking things I couldn’t
handle
I’d scream
We lived in a wicked place
where God was fat and white and ugly
orgasmic hallelujahs from drunkards
dry and barren and thirsty
who’s habits were evergreen
if unseen buried deep
in their own shame
There was a wickedness
put down on me
drove down deep inside my body
coiling its leathery scent
around my spine and squeezing
me
the smell of musky flesh bound books
that bled me under the sign
of a cross
Oooooh, I was wicked
naughty naughty little boy
yanked around by my hair
punched in the head
diving under a counter
I must have stolen something
but when I opened my palms to
reveal my possessions
all that was there were half moon shaped
impressions
There was a wickedness
put down on me
knowledge of the fruit of good and of ill
and while the scars are still bleeding
wrapped red round my spine like Holly
i can take the pain of it like a champ
wet, naked, shivering
this wicked man can deliver some soul to heaven
because the child he was has been to Hell
November 30, 2017
November 27, 2017
I Shouldn’t Have to Tell You Queer Bashers Aren’t Hot
This is pure insanity and it smacks of hetero privilege.
Yesterday I clicked and read a freebie book on my phone, and it made me so very angry. I clicked it because the blurb made it sound like a “gay guy goes back to small hometown where he grew up and swore he’d never return” story, and I generally like a second-chance romance. I like the stories where the gay guy comes back to the place that made him feel small and wrong and shows them that he is neither, and falls in love along the way, probably with his “arch nemesis” (described in the blurb).
That’s what the book sounded like. But the blurb was way, way off.
It went to incredibly off the rails on nearly every level. If I’d just looked at some of the other reviews first, I might have avoided it (I say might because this book has mostly positive, gushing reviews about how lovely…
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November 5, 2017
Dragon Slayer (poem)
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…and in the midst of it all
stood a man
quaking at the knees
fires burning on the horizon
fanned by the wind
dance in his eyes
there’s a sword in his hand
a mage’s staff in the other
a dragon lay dead at his feet
the acrid smell of smoke
and cinders dance in the air
there is stills screaming
the damage the dragon had done
has yet to be fully realized
the scar on his chest
broken and bruised bodies scattered
his lover, still missing
dawn is hours away, still
as he licks his lips
with a papery tongue, thirsty
his heart still hammering away
sweat, piss, fear, the stink of decay
He doesn’t know what to do
he jealously regards to the dragon
he’s so tired, so very tired
the castle is half destroyed behind him
there’s nothing but uncertainty
from his moment, onward
What was that?
His nerves jump, his heart plummets
a cry of dismay emerges from his parted lips
it takes a moment to register
the smallest change in the air
something sweet, perfumed, merciful
the first drop, the second,
the thirty third before his shoulders relax
and as the sky opens up
his knees give and he sinks
to weep, the child of many moons passed
can finally express itself
his tears mingled with the rain,
washing his soul clean
“I’m okay. I’m okay,”
he says over and over
shuddering wildly, trembling
convincing the world, the dragon,
himself
as he hangs suspended
in between life and death
warrior and weak
as heaven breaks over his
supplicant tremulous form
October 30, 2017
Desperation (poem)
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Desperation
is the commodity we trade in
no one needs to kneel without it
no one needs the opioid without it
no one needs the cancer cure
it clings to us like ash
and chokes the life out of our lungs
illegal in some cases
but not in all – and where it is
those who created, prosecute, when you fall
Done in the name
of the Father, Son, and the fallen soldier
don’t you dare attempt to wash yourself clean
don’t try to raise your head above the smog
stand up for the country that’ll see you shot dead
stand up gladiator! SING!
22 a day, pass by your way
3,000 with needle tracks every other three
so much death in Chicago daily, true
yet 500 were shot in Las Vegas the other week
Oh, beautiful for spacious skies
this slow paced suicide is turning America into a tomb
and now we’re deporting Mexican families.
Why, for God’s sake, it’s not like we don’t have the room?
See, Desperation hit places like Mexico first
with the moral majority’s war on drugs
and out of fear families fled in the night
only to find our politicians were nationalistic thugs
Someone please crash this system
you can’t hold someone underwater and get mad when they drown
desperation is the old rugged cross we cling to
and the golden calf at 1600 Penn Ave.
is a pagan deity with the face of a clown
October 29, 2017
‘Still Waters’ (Memoirs of the Human Wraiths Book 3) by F.E. Feeley Jr. #LGBT #Halloween #GhostStories #Murder #Mystery #Promises #Suspense #LoveStory
A review for an older book of mine, a horror novel, called Still Waters. Thanks Rainbow!
Wendy reviews ‘Still Waters’ (Memoirs of the Human Wraiths Book 3) by F. E. Feeley Jr. Publilshed by Dreamspinner Press March 30, 2015, 222 pages.
Memoirs of the Human Wraiths
Promise, Michigan is very much like every other small town across the state. Built on the edge of a lake, the homes sit in neat little rows in cute little neighborhoods. During the summer Promise bustles with tourists who come to spend their vacation dollars and enjoy the lake’s refreshingly cold water. But Promise holds a terrible secret. In the center of the lake is an abandoned island where a curse is rumored to wait for victims, unabated and deadly. Most think it’s just a story, something used to keep kids out of trouble. Still, everyone gives it a wide berth. Everyone except Bret and Adam. They dare to venture out the night of Bret’s birthday. When they declared their…
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October 27, 2017
America has a deadly opioid addiction. I think this lady, can help.
I recently run across a video of a woman, tattoos, kinda brash, kinda rough around the edges, with the mouth of a trucker.
And she called herself a preacher.
I did a double take.
What?
A woman preacher?
Then I listened to her story. Then I read her books, Pastrix, and Accidental Saints and through it – I found my faith again.
Her name is Nadia Bolz- Weber, she’s a former fundi Christian, turned pagan, turned drug addict, before she turned back to Christ – but her message isn’t what you’d expect to hear. That perhaps what you have heard in America’s marriage of faith and capitalism and Johnathan Edwardsesque preaching.
She preaches forgiveness.
She preaches mercy.
Charity.
Forbearance.
She preaches Christ.
With the election of Donald Trump, the opioid addiction that Chris Christie this morning on Morning Joe cited as taking the same amount of souls as 9/11 every three days, I can’t help but think this country is committing suicide.
Growing up fundi – having no sense of worth. I can see how that would happen to the individual.
Knowing how Christ has been presented to this country since it’s founding – I understand how it can happen to the masses.
Maybe this lady has the right kind of Jesus hanging out with her.
Here’s a sermon she gave recently.
I’m a Christian -and even when i was in church, no one talked about the love of God like that.
I think she’s right. I think we were lied to.
October 26, 2017
Accidental Druid (poem)
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deep shadow
has crept across the face of the world
there is a stirring deep in the bowels
of the world
a drum beat
My dreams have been disturbing as of late
familiar faces – in moments of desperation
begging for help or saying goodbye
Then there are the names
Putin, Assange, Un,
and I am where they are watching
briefly whatever business
they are up to
listening to those around them speak
I wake from sleep gasping
anxiety grips my heart
and dims my eyes
I try to break my connection
with the unseen stream of consciousness
but i can’t
I can tast the fear on the air
the anxiety shimmers in the sunlight
something wicked this way comes
comes and comes again
like ocean swells against a levee
The world is in pain
and having found no solace
in daylight nor dreams
I can feel her
She’s afraid
and because of that
I, this accidental Druid
am dying
The Irksome element in the M/M Book Genre
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You know, I could never really put my finger on what it was about M/M romance that irks me so bad. This has nothing to do with writing.
But it has everything to do with the fighting.
I’ve thought about it. I’ve wandered around it. I’ve left it alone and let it slide. And then something else happens and suddenly there it is, once more.
Gay people have been around since Ancient Greece, Alexander, Rome, during the dark ages, the Renaissance – I mean, Michelangelo? Hello?! The reformation, the age of reason, the gilded age, industrialization, the great depression, the Civil War, Walt Whitman, WW1, WW2 – Alan Turing – the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies, AIDS – and despite it all – we’ve survived. Somehow.
We are a nebulous people.
We have no place to call home. No ethnicity. No physical characteristics that set us apart from another. We don’t come from some region of the world. We are everywhere. Alive. Thriving.
But we are a people and as a people we are as diverse in personality and philosophy, theology or lack thereof as everyone else.
We have created culture, we’ve destroyed civilizations, we’ve conquered the world, we’ve been conquered by it. We’ve been taken lovers by Kings (King James comes to mind), and have created the most exquisite art when commissioned by Popes, we’ve saved the world, and did you’re hair before your wedding. We’ve operated on you, taught you, flown you across the sky, and buried your body.
WE.ARE.
Nebulous we may be but we are as old as time itself.
And we do not need you to survive.
I think this genre has had good intentions but I think it’s colonized us – or has attempted to.
It uses paternalism, the same paternalism used against women and minorities going back forever – to shoe horn us, or to create this static border around us, and define what is in fact so nebulous about us.
Like you know better than we do about who we are. America, Western civilization, and the modern world is but a glimmer of the time in which we’ve existed.
It’s like you’re trying to save us. Not only from the world at large. But from ourselves.
And in that, you drag out of every single corner of society anything with the word ‘gay’ on it and prop it up for the entire world to see, and embrace, and to hell with you if you don’t.
I resent that.
How dare you?
I have within me, the same amount of majesty, the same artistic inclination, or warring battle cries as any and all races, classes, and groups of people my gender, or otherwise.
‘Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto’ – I am human, nothing human can be alien to me.
Stop telling us we’re wrong.
Stop telling us, no.
Stop telling us to be quiet.
Stop arguing with us about things that concern us unless you’re arguing to protect an investment and if you really want to argue on that premise – then we’ve walked into slave owner mentality.
My brother James Baldwin said back in the day, I ain’t your negro.
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Well, I ain’t your homo.
I am not, nor are my brothers, some poor pitiful homos that must be protectively pressed against your bosom.
Just like any healthy relationship out there, the dynamics of and definitions of need and want are important.
I want you in my life – as an equal.
But I don’t need you in my life to exist.
The statement of, “We want gay men to have happy endings.” is a kind and virtuous one.
But we’ve had endings. All of them.
And we will again.
You’ll give birth to us. We are your children. We will survive.
October 24, 2017
Sweet autumn morning (poem)
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sweet autumn morning
strumming guitars
sad songs and dappled sunlight
mint in my tea, a stray gray hair
conversations hushed over
a gentle current of spiced air
wistfulness, theme
the taste of cinnamon and apple
in my breakfast bowl
dust motes dance in shafts of light
my barefeet on the carpet
fingers tapping out the heartbeats
in my study
one more laugh line
two doses of fish oil as I stretch
fingers twisting upward
swoop down, namaste
gentle on myself
as the indian summer breeze
caressing the curtains
of my windows
cardboard box, napping cat
at my feet, a napping dog
beef stew in a dutch oven
served over rice
a glass of wine
a kiss from my husband
before night descends
and we descend with it
