Denham Alone Since He Alone was Not Alone–
A Foursome of Sonnets
Outside and Finally In
“A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out all the years.” ~Rupert Brooke
Each year he finds a new one he can love.
The first (and last) was Denham Russell-Smith.
Love? Well, not quite. They worked to dispose of
Hard energy. They hugged and rubbed the pith
Of maleness, hungry, but inside its cloth
Most probably. They hugged and kissed and strained
Until each hardness was an Ostrogoth
Demand. They loved until their lusts both stained
Their pants of pulsing in the dorm. Parched in
The summers they had often gone alone
To be together in the woods for sin.
Two lay entwined, caressing bone and bone.
This Denham had the smoothest skin and, then,
It helped them find the way to be, both, men.
The Opposite of Table d’Hôte
That happened only later, seven years
Beyond their primal meeting. In between
That consummation and their early fears
Of being caught, they met and loved unseen.
Loved? Well, perhaps the boy loved him. He charmed
The poet with his honesty, brown hair, and lust.
He knew affection and delight had harmed
No person. Rupert treated him like crust,
Or, rather, offered him the crumbs from his
Demanding table. Then one surging night
In bed he gave him everything, his jizz,
And full meat course, and left a gravy blight
Upon the sheet. The boy had always fished—
And then he got what everyone had wished.
Fulfillment by a Massive Erection
A drowsiness preceded joy in bed.
The poet took him up and placed him on
His sleepy sheet. He placed his floppy head
There where it opened slightly with a yawn
Forgetting years before when Rupert knocked
His school cap from his crown in playful fun.
(The boy had hoped that some night he’d be shocked
By startling beauty, beauty everyone
Had always hankered for.) Harsh beauty raised
Those thighs and spread them. Denham shut his eyes
Then opened them with loving pupils glazed.
He got what he desired. This one was wise.
All others had been starved. He got the glut.
The thrust moved towards his heart, up through his gut.
“The only thing the artist cannot see is the obvious.”
~ Oscar Wilde
“Well, if Armageddon is on, I suppose one should be there”.
– Rupert Brooke
Perhaps it went another way. Perhaps
It wasn’t true and glorious as love.
Surrender was much more a moaned collapse
Than he had guessed. The poet was above
Him. Thighs rose up, and knees. The poet, pained
By what he’d wanted all those yearning years,
Pushed. Denham opened up. He grimaced, strained
To let his one-time worshiper wince tears
From granting eyes across the grave one’s face.
The poet was consumed with rhythm and with greed
And so he didn’t see the paltry race
Of salty love. He just shoved in his seed.
He failed to note Denham’s doting distress
But then complained about the dirty mess.
~ Phillip Whidden