Alan is in prison now
This poem is about the repetitive nature of successive wars on gay and queer people through the 20th century to now.
I've heard Alan is in prison now Just like some of those Poles they found With pink triangles on their pyjamas, He was a rather good chap, shame, Buggered it right up, hah, didn't he. The bar, filled with heavy acrid smoke, Stale beer and sticky floors absorb The reverb of slow realisation that normality Will take an exponential time to return, That some people won't, not fully at least, Brains hollowed out, after the war. I heard it only affects them, a specific disease, Lady Di wasn't scared, even met Leigh at That dirty club ping pong balls and gods-knows-what, A shame, it might snuff out all that lot He married that girl then died, all for what? The bar, filled with solvent odour and smoke, Watery mixers and sticky floors absorb The reverb of slow realisation that normality Will take an exponential time to return, That some people won't, not fully at least, Brains hollowed out, after that disease broke. I heard that she died, that they already Forgot her name, first after she told them, Again when they addressed her, then While they stabbed her thirty times to death. Shame, she no longer existed in legal eyes. The bar, filled with thin machine-made smoke, Watery mixers and sticky floors absorb The reverb of slow realisation that normality Will take an exponential time to return, That some people won't, not fully at least, Brains hollowed out, after their war on us.
