Fuck But Youth Is Beautiful
Fuck but youth is beautiful
in its exercise and practice.
There is no replacement for the irreplaceable, unpaced mash
that is the face full of watery plumpness
framing pink lips.
Damn, I used to be there,
and I hated it; it was ugly, salacious, loud;
I wished there were a turnstile
through which I could walk and purchase a different form of transport.
and was repulsed by the suggestive twist in every shape and event;
I wanted Plato's pure form;
I wanted simplicity scrubbed clean.
I scoured my skin with a green plastic scrub pad
and wished that I knew more than how not to live.
I waded through tall grass and bushes,
I felt the sting of nettles on my knees,
and it made me feel old.
Youth was fucking beautiful
when I watched others turn their hips at corners and doors
or brush their fine hair back from fat skin
with ripe hands.
I knew that my own youth was also watched
and that it was not mine to pickle in
but something to behold in the round bottoms and lean legs,
the soft chins of the freshly suckled,
a thing to watch and shape an appetite
my own light walk could not inspire.