Phimosis, aged Nineteen

they rage for lack of whoring

and hurry me towards

a wench who treads the boards

in my bawdy theatre group.

She’d grinned at my swift swoop

like it was grotty cabaret

arranged by François Rabelais,

but rubber goes to waste.

Still waiting, sweaty, chaste,

I chase her expectant cunt

but I can’t fuck, so I don’t.

Done tickling, now I bring

myself to brashly swing

my swindled battering ram

towards a baffling dam,

a dimly-lighted rift.

I’m ruffled, more than miffed.

With muffled touch and sight,

while muzzled strict and tight,

distracted as a newborn,

burning for a shoehorn,

shame-laden, I search

and lose my lust and lurch

like a stunted stoat.

Still I can’t fuck, so I don’t.

Done trying, sighing, she

attempts to shelter me

with “Shagging isn’t all

life has to show, you fool!”

Unfulfilled, castrated,

strangled blue with hatred,

I tread and scrape the land

where lustful billboards stand.

Intangibly they sneer

for snacks and cars and beer

and belittle us for sport

as though they laugh and snort,

“Oi, Loser! You! Take note:

You can’t fuck!” – and, I don’t.