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Let’s observe the decencies at least. Hasn’t he got a son somewhere down south? A Science Park near Rickmansworth? Some god of background radiation? Venus O Venus, rising from Lurline Bay, Your one-piece just rolled down, What is a boy to do but hang on your every word And especially gesture? Please come down the beach café. If you’re a photo-shoot I’ll post my genes to you, You’re the stock I’d choose alright, Or if I could give them to you tit-for-tat How many times would be considered Extraordinary? O Valeria, Amelia sweet Lianne, Propitious Queens of Love, we could be at it Lunch and dinner, feeling the universe move ever outward, Always to origins not endings, bodies a-tumble, Not cogitators’ mind and soul (how’s this for a line!) O Venus I’m the one to move the earth with you, Help you with your hawthorn hedges (half-run wild) Your trodden mires, boot-dung, Rich and claggy marls, sludge and colt’s-foot, The slopes of rubble that you’ve colonised, Your haycocks, bullock pasture, Jam jars full of spawn, Your turbid rivers at the flood – None of this moves but by your love! • And if Mars, that real glamour boy, Skin buffed and glossed, hairless to the drapery-fold, My best mate, can be drawn to drowse JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 80
page 81
On your divan leaving his Lance and tin-hat for the kiddies, A ribbon cupid-tied around your calves, I’ll not be jealous, I’ll not be wronged or peevish, Nor drunk-distressed, sitting among the ironing, Steam and starch, cross-legged Like a little drummer boy, not unreasonable Though genuinely screwed, fucked over by the mind’s Sexual pawing – what do you do with him? No, I’ll not be jealous, for then the fire-step Could be stood down, the sniper stretch and snooze, The exhaust in the desert cool Before the demon finds and enters it. Soft skin, softly unslain, let him waste His afternoon with you – hush, by love and reason It seems that you have done it And there is no other dream but this. • Until, the kiddies learn to dress by the left. Then boot-blacking the balls of the weakest boy Will be the least of it. Captain Penus, When he wakes, sticks it to you once more up the arse And leaves you to his squad – by god you should’ve seen us – callow delving, womb-tearing, young boys somehow hating life. • And is that you wiping your mouth Chugging on Listerine ? Black girl, fucked al fresco on a mattress in the lay-by dawn till dusk, International logistics. • 81 | WHAT MUST HAPPEN

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Let’s observe the decencies at least. Hasn’t he got a son somewhere down south? A Science Park near Rickmansworth? Some god of background radiation?

Venus

O Venus, rising from Lurline Bay, Your one-piece just rolled down, What is a boy to do but hang on your every word And especially gesture? Please come down the beach café. If you’re a photo-shoot I’ll post my genes to you, You’re the stock I’d choose alright, Or if I could give them to you tit-for-tat How many times would be considered Extraordinary? O Valeria, Amelia sweet Lianne, Propitious Queens of Love, we could be at it Lunch and dinner, feeling the universe move ever outward, Always to origins not endings, bodies a-tumble, Not cogitators’ mind and soul (how’s this for a line!) O Venus I’m the one to move the earth with you, Help you with your hawthorn hedges (half-run wild) Your trodden mires, boot-dung, Rich and claggy marls, sludge and colt’s-foot, The slopes of rubble that you’ve colonised, Your haycocks, bullock pasture, Jam jars full of spawn, Your turbid rivers at the flood – None of this moves but by your love!

•

And if Mars, that real glamour boy, Skin buffed and glossed, hairless to the drapery-fold, My best mate, can be drawn to drowse

JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 80

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