Saint Botolph's Review

Saint Botolph's Review
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“You no longer need a wand
To make animals of men,
Your body has become
The thing that makes men beasts”
—Frieda Hughes, “Circe,”
Waxworks
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Ted’s animal Poetry—
Connecting him to the
Hot line of his Masculinity

The instinctual underlying—
Primitive origins of Hawk,
Crow, Pike and Jaguar
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Hunting, fishing, hiking—
Celtic chicken unspigotted
Urges of Druidic youth

Jizzy jouissance—
Smirking Ted’s phallus
Visage of Priapus pricks
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Undying sullen males—
Devilishly devious dicks
How carelessly they cum

Sewing their wild oats—
And worshipping themselves
In godforsaken Moors
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Mytholmroyd mythologies—
Dark sullen moody types
Ensconced in Cambridge

Indolent St. Botolph's Review—
Ditching New England poetry
By passing Emily Dickerson
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Buried in his furious pubes—
Dragging out the dregs of
Ted’s ancient Druidic loins

And yet it’s Ted himself—
Convulsing into a Cornucopia
Zoo of Circe’s magic spells