A Fucking, Fucking Poem

Sparkling gymnist from a young, young age,
a boy surrounded by feminine aesthetics
from young.
Created cheerleader.

I really hate that these things end up happening
with great talent whisked away by a sexual glare
born in just innocent fascination of the little women around him
as he grew into a pretty man.

He travelled like a child.
He had energy like a child.
What made him an adult but birthdays, a driver's license, and the rapture of puberty?

I hate this story.
Because I am a boy too
way down in the inside.

People are dirty, vile, sexual creatures
even the youngest of them.
My first love made love at 12 years old.
I wish kids were not adults.

But horny little women with strong thighs, hot makeup are sorceresses.
That is why a man either becomes gay around them, loves many older women around them,
or breaks the third wall
into Eros love.

A pox on fate and Watergate and cheating men
and Bill Clinton
and the damn third wall.
Pretty becomes beautiful and at another glance beautiful becomes fucking sexy.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
He coached. He tumbled. He starred.
He was one with the realm,
an enthusiast,
and fourteen year old women passing sexual ed., playing harder games than me and twisting young boys around them.

And of course, we like to think that children don't have sex, that they're vulnerable, and naïve,
but why do we teach them so much?
Show our daughters so much
in this dang carnal world?

They came to want him and he them,
breaking out from beauty to sex appeal
and touching in teaching,
thighs, strong thick bodies
at fourteen of age.

And the glossy stare cleared, a voyeuristic window
through which both watched the other.

And then,
shatter goes the glass and the rearview mirror in which you see yourself
and the law.

Spins and twists in the air and butterfly skill
and romance in the golden air
'till sex, sex, could make his interests.

And rumor spread, and he was locked up.
But then again free, like a little birdie, like one of them,
happiness, bliss.

Gyms closed their doors.
He had cheered all his life, but his life was long,
longer in width than the women he worked with
and sexed with
under the veil of teenage consent
that isn't consent at all.

My mom said that they didn't know the repercussions, that these girls were innocent,
but they've had more training with sex than me.
We breed older girls, but treat them like we never taught them,
like chronological numbers have some weight to them more than our secular lessons.

He's gone now.
He is a sex offender now.
He is a rapist now.
But I don't think that's fucking fair!
Any child man could be in the same instant.

Another coach is gay to his strength, having assimilated with the tiny gymnistas for so long, gradually dying away,
all masculine things
and at last love
for the small world around him,
adopting another love
that could protect him and make him a man woman among girls, but weaker around boys.

But we have mostly gymnistas.
He's no threat to our daughters. The wedge of nonattraction is wider.
He is safer,
safer from the other earth on the other tectonic plate that is romantic union with a woman child.

I
would hate to work with kids.
They're already so cute to me
though I wouldn't break through romance for my religion,
and I wear an early sky blue and deepening evening sky blue bracelet
with a silver ho ho ho Christmas panda as a charm.