Category Archives: Poetry

Marigold ‘Boy O’Boy’


Once, a handsome Sicilian boy, the son of Eros and a nymph, fell deeply in love with the sun, and couldn’t bear to stay another minute where he couldn’t see it. He worshipped it wherever he went, and when it wandered out of sight, especially at night, he couldn’t rest, because that object he loved wasn’t warm upon his tanned breast. For this reason, he never walked, stood, or lay in the shade, the love, in full sway, was boundless, and made his life its prey.

At one time, the sun remained under a cloud for eight days; during this period, the boy, Cylmenon, was very unhappy, and because he could not find his beloved, pined away and died. It was a tragic end for a fine young boy. When the sun shone again it found Cylmenon’s body near a fountain where he had tried to see the sun’s reflection, and so grieved was the sun, that it changed the lad’s body into a golden flower, of the first Marigold.

Study of a Sicilian boy with Passionflowers in his hair, Sicily, c.1899 – Baron Wilhelm von Gloeden

An explanation: Marigolds are known as “herbs of the sun” and represent the sun’s power, warmth, energy, and light. They are often associated with joy, optimism, passion, and creativity. This story is based on an obscure and forgotten poem from 1868 by Peter Spenser. Little is known about him other than that he was the eldest son of the Rev. Peter Spenser, Rector of Temple Ewell, near Dover. He wrote poetry for local newspapers across England and also published the magnificently titled ‘Parvula, or, a Few Little Rhymes: About a Few Little Flowers, a Few Little Birds, and a Few Little Girls, to Which Are Added, a Few Little Songs, and a Few Other Little Things.’ (1863)

Stolen Words – To a Sicilian Boy – Theodore Wratislaw

Youth in tree with arm raised – Wilhelm von Gloeden (1856-1931)

Love, I adore the contours of thy shape,
Thine exquisite breasts and arms adorable;
The wonders of thine heavenly throat compel
Such fire of love as even my dreams escape:
I love thee as the sea-foam loves the cape,
Or as the shore the sea’s enchanting spell:
In sweets the blossoms of thy mouth excel
The tenderest bloom of peach or purple grape.

I love thee, sweet! Kiss me again, again!
Thy kisses soothe me, as tired earth the rain;
Between thine arms I find mine only bliss;
Ah let me in thy bosom still enjoy
Oblivion of the past, divinest boy,
And the dull ennui of a woman’s kiss!

From ‘Caprices: Poems by Theodore Wratislaw’ (London: Gay and Bird, 1893)

No mystery about what’s going on here.

When someone at the Pall Mall Gazette got an early look at Caprices, they immediately picked up on the vibe — To a Sicilian Boy and L’Eternal Feminin were clearly written with a Uranian (homoerotic) theme. The staffer freaked out and threatened bad reviews unless those poems were cut. The publisher caved and swapped them for two safer options, Paradox and At Midnight.

But nobody seemed to notice the poems quietly dedicated to Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas. That particular scandal was still waiting in the wings.

To a Sicilian Boy eventually found its way into Charles Kains Jackson’s The Artist and the Journal of Home Culture, a more open-minded publication of the time.

Theodore William Graf Wratislaw (1871–1933) — yes, he claimed to be a Count thanks to his grandfather, who basically declared himself one — was born in Rugby. These days, almost no one remembers him, but he wrote about 160 poems, most during the so-called “naughty nineties.” His work popped up in Love’s Memorial, Some Verses, The Yellow Book, and The Strand Magazine. He’s even rumoured to have inspired Max Beerbohm’s character Enoch Soames.

At some point, Wratislaw swapped the pen for a government desk job — which he famously called “penal servitude.” He married three times, but people still speculated about his sexuality, and To a Sicilian Boy didn’t exactly hide the clues. The timing’s telling: Wilde’s trial happened in 1895, and that same August, Wratislaw quietly joined the Civil Service. Draw your own conclusions.

Fours Words in Sentences of Lust 

Everybody’s Fool – Charlie Marseilles

How did it happen?
I went for milk.
He served me milk.
Anything planned tonight mate?
I shook my head.
That’s a shame mate.
What are you doing?
Nothing at all mate.
I take a chance.
Come to mine then.
What are you saying?
Let’s watch a movie.
Not sure about that.
Please come, I say.
It sounds weird mate.
I tell him where.
He comes around later.
We chatted about things.
We watched a movie.
Gotta go now mate.
I don’t want that.
Please stay the night.
That looks bad mate.
It’s a good offer.
He agrees to stay.
We have good sex.
Next morning he’s dirty.
He takes a shower.
Gotta go to work.
I will miss you.
Miss you too mate.
Thanks for the milk.

Is this the saddest and perfect end? The final act of betrayal never felt so good


Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.

Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?

In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.

Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?

There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?

Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?

They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.

Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.

The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.

I remember you as you were


To those who came before,
Memory did not age us.
You did not grow old.
I remember you as you were.

The years dimmed the soul,
And the intoxicated dreams.

To those with dark hair,
And blonde hair,
And somewhere in between.

To those who came and went,
That looked like angels.
Fresh and slender,
With charms and flaws.
I remember you as you were.

Time is not kind,
It stole the looks,
It disguised the figure,
It aged the soul.
The handsome heroes departed.

Sweet youth blown away.
I might recognise you now,
But I choose not to.
Because I remember you as you were.

Alex with the perfect legs

Simon Karlsson/Letizia Guel/Boys By Girls

A lad called Alex
A Rotherham lad at that

A lad called Alex
Whose legs are perfect
And not bad for a Rotherham lad

And those legs
On a lad called Alex
Would be perfect to touch

But that lad called Alex
Who’s not a bad lad
A Rotherham lad with perfect legs
Has a girlfriend

I dream about that lad
A lad called Alex
A Rotherham lad
With perfect legs

Once I was a name on a toilet wall


Once I was a name on a toilet wall.
I suck dick. I bend over.
A chosen one. Never the loner.

Once I was a name on a toilet wall.
A calling card. It was never hard.
A number. Underlined. Always starred.

Once I was a name on a toilet wall.
Youth on my side. Means to provide.
More than one had to be denied.

But life plays games.

Once I was a name on a toilet wall.
Fading by year. Harder to adhere.
Youth abandoned. It would disappear.

Once I was a name on a toilet wall.
But no more.