Masturbation
(inspired by Sadao Hasegawa)

Greenleafed and heavy are the trees of September.
Mossy-backed and sluggish are the toads.
Blighted and bent, the cobweb glistens
with the dewy juices of a boy
As he stands, spread-leg proud and pees.

This boy unequaled in his seed
unequaled in his adolescent need,
He imagines his thighs astride the rude lust of a man's embrace,
his love fulfilled and body filled
with sweetest nectars of the demon,
joyfully seeking the impure land.

He hardens and the nameless youth sweats profusely at his efforts,
the glowing droplets, like tiny crystal eggs
in the golden nest of his matted hair.
and he revels in the decadent squalor of himself.

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and everything nice.
But what are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppydog tails.

Even in childish expressions, words connoting their fluid natures;
glabrous and springy tree-frogs, glandular in wet-like skins.
Silver snail trails, lubricious and succulent,
reminiscent of what in the young man,
but streaming silver semen. And tails,
wiggling, wagging, puppy-like in youth, mischievous, swimming as his
sperm.

A boy's body --- nothing so crystal clearly perfect;
lamb-like to hold, goat-like to fuck.
An enduring innocence dwelling in eyes of satanic depth,
alluring, trusting, allowing,
as varied in glinting colors as a bulging bag of marbles
in a young boy's pocket, his toys when a child.

His skin the same rainbow,
bluish ebony to startling white, all the hues in between;
chocolate, maple syrup, tanned, pinkish, bleached and freckled, buttermilk
to brown.
In his dreams, a blue one once, in another green.

A boy like the sea,
his body of the sea, his gonads,
growing like treasures from the sea;
oysters, scallops, the yielding firmness of unshelled mussels.
He smells and tastes eternal like the sea, liquid and saline,
moist juices in unexpected places, faintly sea-weedish,
salty shoreline smells wafting from every pore.

Coltish limbs, thighs, calves, his wrists attaching masturbating hands
to lithe, sleek muscles in his sculpted arms,
trim, tautly skinned angles of the young man he will become.
His shoulder blades like an angel's wings, fret on the planes of his
spine.
Warm, deliciously tufted hollows of boy, reveled in,
clefted crevices of downy hair brushing cheeks, boyish chest,
his strength overlaid with the silkiest of skin,
a softness so fast upon the hardness of his firm young body,
intoxicating to even him.

Clam-like buttocks of dewy assflesh,
smooth as the skin of an eel's.

And it. That. That which defines him like the fork of Neptune,
the great all-encompassing sword of every seaman who ever sailed,
his cock.
Prick, phallus, dick, penis, thousands of names in as many languages,
none so defining as the instrument itself.

The boy ejaculates, zips up
in that precious, boy-only, backward hunch of his teenage butt,
the unduplicated stowing away of his treasure
and walks off.

Copyright © 1993, James Medley.