Sylvie Hill

The Manhandled Muse Who Cocked His Head and Blew

But which man can handle being a Muse?
Is it you, Hiding Hues off a feminine whim
ready to feel somewhat intimidated
or impotent like the female poet suggested
men get when a woman
wants them?

“I go both ways, darling,
best to keep one’s options open”
Was something he said that I once thought
– Dange – er – OUSE! –
That I once thought excluded me from him in any
potential arrangement or
situation.

But which man can handle being a Muse?
It seems the homosexual lad in the dress-up garb
half-naked centurion or dressed in woman’s scarves
can deal with being idolized —
my female gaze upon his manly frame
loving their beauty, giving them praise.

I only really ever see nice pictures of erect cocks in gay porn pictures, you know.
The heterosexual guys, if they are even that, have this look in their eyes, shallow.
Not saying the gay splayed cock-out has more feeling than the straights.
But certainly they seem to take on wild positions more freely than the hets.

So maybe your off-handed remark was just a joke I don’t know.
If it’s true, the real me, it won’t suit but my poet self, enthused!

Otherwise, my “darling” here’s the deal.
You’re a man with a mouth full of attitude
deflecting punches by the multitude
surviving, somehow, in asshole servitude
to sharp British wit and that fucking,
FUCKING South Pacific machoist bent.
You’re a man with a killer look
despite big, big eyes like two licked Lindt chocolates
— the King Kong marble-sized ones, melting, in unison.
Yeh the bloody kind with the chocolate cream inside.
Your tough exterior, but a pudding inside.

Here’s the deal: I remembered how you smoked.
Sucked a drag, inhaled deep, cocked that head up and blew.
You jangled when you danced a bit.
You make expressions with a face like a bitch.
So if you’re manly and know it, I’m turned on by how you show it.
*I* absolutely won’t fucking get it, but the Poet Me requires it.
Because if you don’t keel or feel it all effeminate
when a woman poet fantasizes about your bits
then it’s either that you are REALLY that compatible,
or you don’t give a toss, and think my poems –- shit.

© Sylvie Hill, 2013