Francis Bennion - Poetry - Poemotions

People complain that men are too sexy.
We would all be much better off, they suggest,
if men would just stop being so sexy
and let us all quieten down
and lead a more peaceful life
far away from the sexiness
these crude men will insist on thrusting upon us.

I have news for the numskulls: this sexiness
these crude men seem to thrust on you
does admittedly lead to a lot of trouble,
but I have to tell you
much of that trouble is caused
by the stupid dolts who refuse to recognise
the true nature of sexy men.

An eastern sage remarked on
the dibble with which men are planted.
For life men are required to carry about
this planted dibble (that also applies to boys).
Admittedly the dibble causes trouble
but willy-nilly these males were all born with it
and willy-nilly must carry it to the grave.

The dibble is planted right in the middle
of these hapless males, and they're stuck with it.
It bothers them daily, never letting them alone.
Nobody seems to realise
just what it does to them,
just what trials it inflicts
on the sexy men.

Start of page 152 in the book

So the poor sexy men are blamed
for all sorts of things, from algebra to zeugma.
The dibble is a ceaseless indicator
of responses to stimuli which, if they had any choice,
the poor men wouldn't really want to know about.
Often they are helpless:
when they plead with the dibble it takes no notice.

More than that, the dibble
assumes to take over as a register
of emotions that matter most to these males.
It demands to move in, and does,
whenever the man or boy is stirred or moved
by an outside influence -
even the delayed film of an opening flower.

So come on, let's at last recognise
the truth about these sexy men.
What they have they were landed with, born with.
What they have they die with, though by then it may be malfunctioning (to their regret).
The thing to note is that the need for its functioning
is lifelong built in.
If there's a male in your life, remember.

Start of page 153 in the book

Wicked Song of the Child Molester

I sing my song -
it is not wrong
to be a child molester.

I dance and sing
like anything
in case the feelings fester.

They'll make me think
my motives stink
unless I stay a jester.

Jesting, you say indignantly, is the last refuge of manipulated human feeling:
I admit that, having been taught to be distraught, yet for ever reeling,
for ever cut off by strong senses from ordinary profitable wheeler-dealing.
I have to admit we child molesters bump constantly against our emotional ceiling.

III

That poor child gazes
as her eye glazes
in the grip of the child molester

I dance and sing
like anything
in case I might detest her

She claims the right
as I press tight
to be moral if I should best her

Start of page 154 in the book

Besting a child, you say, is a claim in an unfair game:
the odds are uneven, the gallant young runner lame.
She sketches pathetic smiles, it can never be the same
as the even-steven betting when your own good lady came.

So I killed that child
with feelings wild
for I am a child molester

I was not shown
the grass smooth-mown
the elegant home and nester

So I sing my song
it is not wrong
to be a child molester.

Start of page 155 in the book

Twitches (or Tingles)

In the Lion I met an earnest man who told me
people can choose their sexuality.
I shall call this earnest man Ernest;
he was quite sure of what he was saying.

A decent man was Ernest in the Lion:
standing his ground, standing his round.
Tonight, while sipping his bright new pint,
I felt bound to humour this honest man.

But I was aware of dark Mabel, the pub landlady,
as she swanned around, swabbing the bar,
replenishing peanut dishes:
Mabel I knew barred religion, politics and sex.

It's like this grumbled Ernest, suppressing a belch,
the way I see it is this, he said, pinning me with a fishy eye,
we all have freewill, so the fact that we can choose
whether to be a poofter, or what else, stands to reason.

I was aware that Mabel here cocked an ear
as she emptied ashtrays, flitting around.
How do you mean I asked,
hand-motioning Ernest to keep his voice down.

He took a draught from his newly-arrived pint, then spoke.
It's not just the fucking poofters,
it's the bleeding paedophiles as well.
Freewill does give us a choice you know!

I felt uncomfortable about what Ernest was saying.
I myself do not have a choice - never did.
There's a simple way for a man to know this:
the twitch (or tingle) in the prick.

Start of page 156 in the book

There's no twitch I get from luscious damsels
not even when firm young flesh is revealed.
Sadly I have experienced no tingles at all
from any member of the opposite sex - and not for want of trying.

Nor have there been any twitches to speak of
from the sight of little pre-pubescent boys
or stern mature men.
So it's a nil return for my tingles - almost.

I strolled to the bar and ordered more pints.
Mabel looked me in the eye, sipping her port and lemon,
as the new young barmaid prettily served me.
They tell me her name is Jade.

There's no freewill in it, I said to Ernest, returning,
what matters is what makes you twitch (or tingle):
I never selected my form of twitchiness, no more did you:
obviously the twitching/tingling is not connected to the will.

Ernest looked puzzled, but suddenly drunken Mabel chipped in.
I know all about those twitches she shouted.
I get the hell of a tingle in my cunt
whenever I spot that young Jade!

Ernest still looked puzzled.
There's proof for you I said.
Ernest nodded and raised his glass to his lips
but he still didn't seem to take it in.

Start of page 157 in the book

Euphemia's Complaint

Newspapers write 'sleeping with':
I call it fucking.
They're awake, not dozing;
wide awake and aware is what that couple are
all the time they're coupling

They couldn't do it otherwise;
you need to concentrate in that activity.
Engorgement, a necessary adjunct,
seeps away if thoughts wander;
tumescence requires concentration.

Anglican Betjeman, says the reviewer,
suffered when his wife Penelope became RC.
The RC writer Evelyn Waugh
bullied Betjeman with talk of hellfire
then 'slept' with Penelope.

I ask you!
What more can one say?
Haven't I proved the point?
Would sleeping have bothered Betje?
No, it was what those two did when awake

that bothered poor Betje,
that lovable man:
but not it seems lovable enough.
So will the newspapers kindly desist
and give us reality not euphemism.