Man Up

By | 1 August 2015

Boys will be boys will
pine for lost dogs will
time travel in the space between soup scoop and spoon sup, will
knee-skid on dirt, moon-loop through tree tops, will
want friends who dream-share star sabres, infinity sugar, will
whisper in the dark at your door in pyjama-soft dread,
I just don’t know what to do
will curl atop you and suck muslin cloth, will
cry into the safe cave of your collar-bone, will
want your lipstick your eyeliner your skirts, will
sink silent into stories of orphans and cruel masters, will
dance with strange paper ziggurats calligraphed in cabalistic signs, will
want to be sheriff and diva, will
sketch doom castles in the sunpatch to piano sonatas, will
fight emperors with torch light, receive mortal wounds, will
find divine resurrection, because say that’s what happens?
And this time I’ve got the magic force?
So now the king-alien dies? Will
jump sofas and tables to thrash-metal drums, will
scuttle up the air’s skin like spiders, will
snout out the scent of your bed-musk for solace, will
sew purple felt flowers to clothing, thread clear-glass beads on blue string, will
sweat like ripe summer currants with rage at injustice
when boys will be boys who just misunderstood, will
punch you in the breasts for not listening, will
cry when they feel their own hard-ribbed shame, will
hold their galaxy-gasp fingers to a neonate’s knuckles
soft-soft as if to a pup’s wet nose, will
wear bruises like leopard skin they were born in, will
carry cuts like initiation rites into daylight, will
run to their fathers as if there were two words for mother, will
run to their mothers for skin-milk memory-shelter, or
boys will be boys as we all care to will.

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