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 Did Obama Write Gay Poems? (Not Just “Gay”, LITERALLY HOMOSEXUAL…)

Back in 2008, the New York Times published “Pop”, a poem written by Barack Obama when he was a college student.

The poetry originally appeared in the Spring 1981 issue of “Feast,” a 51-page student literary journal collected from the Occidental College community.

Barack Obama was a student at Occidental College until he transferred to Columbia University later that year.

The poem is somewhat vague, but is there a homosexual theme?

Conservative blog, Fellowship of the Minds believes Obama was describing a sexual encounter with an older man.

It’s not the first time Obama has been associated with the homosexual community.

Back in 2008, American Free Press reported that three gay members of Obama’s church were murdered.

The same article also mentions author Larry Sinclair, who claimed Obama “is a closet bisexual with whom he had sexual and drug-related encounters in November 1999”.

Here is “Pop”, read and decide for yourself:


POP

“Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
I see my face, framed within Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.”

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