Denham and his Thoughts while Being Fucked by the Poet Rupert Brooke–a Threesome of Sonnets
Pain While Playing Games
We talk at first as though we do not know
Why we are there. Of course he knows. I sort
Of know and hope, as always. A slow
And almost calm position forms, a sport
Like cricket, just for men who like the hard
Bat, sutured balls, and violence that scores
While looking gentle. Someone might be scarred
For pleasure in these gentlemanly wars
But everyone embraces that and moves
Along to triumph and defeat. It’s not
As if the boys expect to see goat hooves
On those they’re playing with. We make a knot
In bed together or beneath hot trees.
We brag about how high he raised his knees.
That face that everyone desires looks down
At mine. He hovers as he hunches in.
Pure eyes are hidden as each wincing frown
Of thrill increases. It is more a grin
Of ecstasy than grimace. Fallen hair
Sways deep above me and beside his face
As each thrusting finds its deeper way to where
He needs it here inside my sharper space.
He speaks and even in this moment makes
His monotone of passion penetrate
Me with his monument of want. He breaks
His way right through. He presses hard like fate.
Despite the surging pain, I notice most
His eyes and hair. He blinks his silent boast.
At times his hair falls down across his eyes,
That hair of auburn, gleams of gold, and hints
Of red, though darker auburn, but with cries
Of poetry inside it. With these glints
Of rigor made of rich metallic light
He captures me and everyone. The lamp
Beside the bed brings out this furtive flight
Of arcing spirits which I try to clamp
Inside me for the courage to allow
Him what he claims. I squeeze his twitchy strength
To try to hold him. Hearts are known to vow
For far less noble things of lesser length.
His hair that arches thickly up above
His brows bucks, flopping, something big like love.
~ Phillip Whidden