Final Boy

a British life so far, in loose French forms  
 
Toxic Male  
  
The hatefulness  
begins to sink and root in earth.  
The hatefulness  
replaces what was happiness,  
becomes and gilds and grows the worth.  
The toxic flowers choke, then birth  
the hatefulness.  
  
The Only Happy Homosexual  
  
The love has waned to finest point.  
We're worth as much as mutton joint,  
a song displayed in young men's deaths,  
a joke to make of dying breaths.  
A faery just at our endpoint.  
  
We are the life, led brief and gay,  
a mocking sound of boys at play,  
the martyred boys in megadeath.  
Survival's just a shibboleth...  
  
Is this a traitor's hands I see,  
as if to force a verse of me?  
How many men have they betrayed?  
As if to live's like "going straight";  
we measured sex, you measured hate...  
survival's for the good, not great.  
  
Final Boy  
  
The useless womb is left behind.  
You turn and soaked in gunge reflect  
on granite doors and Latin lines.  
It was, of course, a tomb.  
  
The warmth and comfort you retained  
were just its doorways caving in,  
the flaking paint revealing bones.  
You would have either left or died.  
  
The willows of the adult mind  
will be your recompense,  
and certain other things, a rind  
of balm that's pink, and rhymes...  
  
A softness of the open wrist...  
an open heart of gaudiness.