Feb 2017
—For my brothers in cabins, in hiding, out-of-this-world.
I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny *****, the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.
These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me. But
I look again. These are photos of posing and
***** boys.
They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’
So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.
© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980
I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny *****, the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.
These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me. But
I look again. These are photos of posing and
***** boys.
They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’
So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.
© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980
(Madison, WI USA)
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