Pipe-bursts of light crack spines as the books
of broad flesh vellum gingerly across the barren
backs of the boys whose yardstick columns
rise and fall triumphant in the winter of morning.
Bored in school and boarding where coals cool
before toes can cadaver to Lazarean flight,
those fugitive embers ignite whose
fistful of flesh I Merchant-of-Venice to pound well.
Swift-throated talent prodigies its
way through this Salon des Refusés, exhibiting
without thrift what wealth of abuses
we say were applause, ovations our Selves demanded.
But to the business of getting
him off, and raising from death, by laying-on of good
head, my monomyth, my brunet cure
for Narcissism whose handsomeness fascinates me more
than my own, I drink obstinately
from his bowl and turn him over, Ganymeteor
showering me with gold, running to
cup his prize, blindsided, between lips I close and hold.
Shadows bending fold pages whose rips
are glowing muscle promised to kisses, riots of
statuary made legible with
fingertips, the unfoliated pecks numerous.
Unwanted, wealth unminted finds its
shine in this hall, every bed a canvas of tossed
covers, if not for connoisseurs, lost
to the sewer, or the gutter—each boy a poem.
Vinegared wounds of windows dilate,
collapsing into winks magic-lantern-shuttering
frames of scholars who, across the quad,
have no clue who has just eaten his way through assholes.