flushed with sex

the first summer

was so willing

the next one

so alone…

.

.

so label it thusly…

.

little voices, little rooms

fantasy is not a crime

it’s fiction

so go

fuck your

many selves

instead of having sex

with them

i write poetry

you won’t think

it proper

fantasy being

so far from

experience

it might as well

be some other sun

these are gay boys

does that make them

different

only if they’re

from the street

having sold themselves

and all their holes

the biggest hole

like a black hole

at the center

of any sucking galaxy

so, yeah, that

makes them

different

so consider this

in school

they are total failures

in their brooding

black leather jackets

with the hand cuffs

dangling from

a belt and ass

ass ass ass

where they have never

felt obliged

to write a thing

clenched in the jaws

of desks

i do it

to tease them

to taunt them

to throw it back

in their faces

sons and lovers

being english

i do it

to show them the

power of writing

and the rage and sweat

and tumble

of poetry

and so what do they

exactly do with

that

all i can say is

the house is quiet

and they are

absorbed and writing

furiously

on their iPads

that they could write such things

such things that

upset the horses

was power

it’s about the power

the power

of even writing

anonymously

which i encourage

having many theories

om formal

education and how

it leaves them marginalized

but i will drag them

by their cocks back

i care more

about them

not your rules

but the rules of

taking poetry

by the horns

than your

whipping of

their flesh

with propriety

sex is just a tool

they are always learning