35. Poetry

35.2. Poemotions

35.2.6. Text of book

Part Ten (continued)

A Man's Desire for a Boy - The Nature of Desire

Start of page 222 in the book

Bum Fluff

Human sexuality has two levels: participating and not.
Though we all long to participate, often we find we can't.

At school I loved Smith, with flaxen hair.
When we were both fifteen, Smith secretly stroked my possession.

I felt urged to do the same to him, but that was not on.
He coolly smiled, and kept his persona intacta.

At fifteen I would have loved to impact on Smith's persona.
My imagination dwelt on his presumed flaxen bum fluff.

Years later I still see Smith's cool young denying face:
forbidding me any enjoyment of his delectable young buttocks.

Through subsequent years I have enjoyed sex, as one does;
enjoyed it I mean at the participating level, with women.

Always though, at the non-participating level,
my thoughts have dwelt on Smith, have remembered his never seen body.

Often in the street I see luscious pubescent boys.
Imagination conjures the bum fluff on their young buttocks.

Easily, I could gain their confidence, then rape them.
Why would I want to do that? I'm non-participating.

Start of page 223 in the book

A Song of Pu- Pu- Puberty

I sing a song of puberty,
a slender boy song,
of pu- pu- puberty.

I watched in the superstore
the delectable lad
meekly shopping with his mother.

An admirable shop companion
was that slim pubescent boy
cheerfully propping up his Ma.

He supported that drab woman
who may not have deserved him
or his pu- pu- puberty.

This is a difficult song
that not many people can sing -
a song of pu- pu- puberty.

God in his heaven looks down
on lovely boys in the throes
of pu- pu- puberty.

He might have spared the poor men,
the sliding pederasts,
who protestingly succumb to the lure.

Slender, sleek and unused
are those glossy, mossy boys.
Forgive their poor hapless 'abusers'.

Start of page 224 in the book

They can't help it, being forced to sing
the age-old song of pu- pu- puberty
along with all the others.

Fall in, shouts the Major General -
we're all in this together;
as the boy soldiers parade.

We grown men are on show
in the tender land of boyhood
that hooting realm of pu- pu- puberty.

Which we all left behind long ago
yet still haunts our lives
and probably always will.

Ask our wives.

Start of page 225 in the book

A Male Mystery

What strange men there are in this world,
are in this world!
Kingsley encountered a strange man,
a possibly deranged man,
when a long-ago boy at the City of London School.

Kingers tells us this mountebank master,
would suddenly squat
beside him in a lad's desk
and quietly unbutton the lad's flies
just to give him a lovely surprise.

Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor knows
what strange men there are in this world,
are in this world!
One at least of his priests has never ceased
to open surprised lads' flies.

Out in the world it is all very strange,
all very strange,
that so many educated mature men
should constantly long to do something silly
with some poor little boy's willy.

What drives them on, what forces them,
compels them to do it?
Dangerously requires them to risk all
for the urge to stroke some fleshy ball
wrapped in thin boyish skin?

Start of page 226 in the book

Forces them to work to stiffness
a little fleshy tube not all that remarkable:
in fact rather ordinary and commonplace, and yet
for all these peculiar men,
somehow out-of-this-world magical.

It can only be that these select boys are magical,
really are magical.
They possess the gay freshness of youth.
They dart, artless, in innocent thrusts.
Their equipment not previously used.

Start of page 227 in the book

No, I Won't Do That

I am attracted to this boy, call him David; but it is incongruous.
On Exmouth beach David is the only child, this Christmas Day,
willing to dash into the cold Devon sea with the adults.
Fourteen or so, he shows pluck - and I would like to pluck him:
but I quite see that would be incongruous and unsuitable - also illegal.

Young David stands there shivering, but willing.
Half-naked, he stands on the brink, arms akimbo,
clutching his cold slender body round its middle,
juddering and shivering, with goose pimples, head turned sideways
towards the nearest adult.

Young David's slim trim half-nude figure erotically attracts me, a grown man.
Though I don't know why, really I don't know why.
Is it the old 'adult climbing out of child' syndrome?
The child in him, the future man in him,
pierces me: really I don't know why.

It is incongruous to think I could have an amorous relationship with David.
'Disagreeing or inconsistent with the circumstances or requirements of the case',
says the Dictionary under 'incongruous', adding
'not what is reasonable or becoming;
unbecoming, unsuitable, inappropriate, absurd, out of place'.

That fits all right with youthful David and old me;
his young mind and soul
would not for a minute contemplate me as lover.
Grotesquely I might entice or force him
but what good would that do either of us?

Start of page 228 in the book

It could seriously frighten young David,
and put him off the sex in his body for life.
It could damage his nascent psyche,
blunt his burgeoning desire for the softer sex:
and land poor me in chokey.

So, no, I don't think I'll do that.
Instead, I'll go on questioning, after all these years,
just why, at acute moments,
some of us think our sexuality
nhas to be brought into play.

Start of page 229 in the book

A Busy Prison Visitor

As a busy prison visitor I speak to many creeps.
That is my self-appointed task,
for which I 'receive no remuneration', as the official pamphlet puts it.
In other words I don't get paid -
so why do I do it?

Well one has to do something
to justify one's existence
especially when one has an unearned income
making it relatively unimportant
to 'receive no remuneration'.

One creep I remember vividly.
He filled me with disgust, even loathing.
I hated the fat slob on sight,
With his thick pink drooling lips
and insufferable Etonian accent.

With all your advantages, I said, still standing,
what are you doing here?
For that I could report you to the Governor he sneered
knowing the rules as I do -
but do sit down, please make yourself at home.

At home, in Wormwood Scrubs!
I saw the fellow had a rare sense of humour
and slowly began to warm to him.
I squatted on the metal stool
and asked him again why he was there.

Start of page 230 in the book

It's a long story, the creep answered.
It could begin with my Scottish nurse
who constantly licked little bits of me
which at the time seemed unimportant
but later asserted themselves rather strongly.

I looked at my watch.
I haven't much more time I said -
my train goes in half an hour.
Mine goes in half a century the creep answered -
that is if they ever let me out.

I consulted my notes; it says here I said,
that you buggered a boy of fifteen.
Pretty nasty you must admit -
what's your excuse?
My moral balloon was inflated with self-righteousness.

The creep's answer brought me up short.
No doubt you were taught
on your prison visitor's course
how heinous it is for a mature man
to bugger a boy of fifteen.

Never before did I bugger a boy
and never have done so since.
This occasion was something special for both.
If you want to know the details I'll tell you
because I feel they are important.

I feel, as he did, that our flesh that day was important.
He was a skinny boy, with no flesh on his bum.
The scrotum and balls were skinny like him
but the penis was long and stiff.
I thought it big and important.

Start of page 231 in the book

They said at the trial I was filled with lust
using the lad to get pleasure;
rather as if I had been sucking a sherbet
or dashing down a gin and tonic,
or quietly stroking myself in bed.

It was nothing at all like that, said the creep.
It was suddenly important that I possess that boy
using the only tool I had
and using his only orifice,
stroking at the front his stiff possession.

It was an historic occasion, the creep finished -
both for that boy and me.
No force was used, he was not hurt -
we conjoined peaceably,
and not with all that much pleasure.

Pleasure was not relevant, nor was lust -
All that was just not in the picture.
It was a loving fleeting joining, claimed the creep -
as if he could expect me, with my official training,
to believe that!

Start of page 232 in the book

Eton Gloating Song

Eton, said Harold Acton,
licks a boy into shape.
I like that idea of licking
and love the thought of that shape.