40. Gay. And Proud?

The start of my mid-life crisis.

I’ve said it, “40.  Gay.  And Proud”.

Is that a blatant oxymoron?

Something to shout out loud?

Or something best not dwelt upon?

 

A condition saggily arrived at,

in need of snipping and tucking?

A simple choice: lines or fat?

Cue more products and plucking.

 

A plain affirmation of existence?

[After all, so many died].

A testament to my persistence?

Or plainly, time that I lied?

 

A meeting of two rare assets:

fresh wisdom and relative youth?

Smart enough to play my facets?

Daft enough to dodge the truth?

 

Closer to the grave than the cradle,

with all the best years passed?

Or experienced enhanced and able,

at least, when I can be arsed?

 

Drugs, one illicit, become prescription.

Sex, once explicit, becomes pedestrian.

 

Time to dress more like Dad?

Time to act more like more Mum?

Tone it down?  End the humdrum?

Tone up ads?  Workout big bum?

Settle down?  Shake things up?

Have a kid?  Buy a pup?

 

Get a sports car?

Get a sports bra?

Stop doing gigs?

Start doing wigs?

Stay in?

Triple gin?

Less Vice?

More Nice?

 

Finally.

It means only

what I let it mean.

 

It means:

40. Gay. And Proud.

Of both.

Reviews

[M. View]

I like that the inter turmoil is great, NICE write