That Beauty has a body is something all horny boys know.
Sore in reading rooms,
I pored over Greek vases, Roman stone, Renaissance masterpieces in flesh tones,
sought the god and fell for him in film.
As Ripley, Matt marks, fucks and kills young men in Italy.
He wants to live like them—
frescoed villas, grapes, fragile women, jazz weekend in Capri—
to flower in the stones of Venice, to live.
Desire selects him: the blond hair, blue eyes, boy-next-door breed.
Most masculine flower,
the tulip curves in classic line, raises a pedestal crowned with stigma-lips
and slips to a bulb, round and hard as nut.
I read the other day curators had to dry semen splashed between the tulip-thighs
of the Berberini faun (daemonic stone!).
The wanker must have been pockmarked and poor,
having blown it all on a budget tour.
Plan for this poem-in-progress