Magazine for Sexuality and Politics

Artists and Portraits and Dogs

Jarrad Alexander Young

Pale Kings and Princes too

I like a look of agony,

Because I know it’s true -

Men do not sham convulsion,

Nor simulate, a throe -

The eyes glaze - and that is death -

Impossible to feign

The beads upon the forehead

By homely anguish strung.

Plastic Jesus

This iridescent mind could hold aloft,

Dreams of lovers’ solitude,

A moor, a country croft,

Vivid imagination in overdrive,

Underestimating the complexity of urge,

Lost in the nacreous purity of skin,

Pearlescent eyes stare upon this incandescent love.

Punctuation ruined my poesy

You have a merry mouth little one,

Your cheeky tongue, bereft of mind,

You’ll know my love is playful

I may kiss you for being kind.

You bleat as you jump away with my gift,

You’ll click as you gallop a ride,

You’re in the depths of this crevice my swirling merry Floss,

I pulse and warm,

You’re inside.

Whilst we are in the midst of our life

We often fail to listen to our hearts,

For if we did they’d surge too loudly and smart our ardour’s stir.

Burn the history books and let the future be less clear.

Scratch away until the title of the story the cover no longer shows, scrape away at the embossed gold scrawl,

For nobody will ever remember my name.

If the measure of this art is to read the Ilyad and Ulysses and re-construe,

Then let my name not be remembered.

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