I watched a group of twelve-year-olds
digging in the sand
No older though, for they squealed in laughter
Heads thrown back in the wind
Something in the sand and water excited them
And I swear they did a circular dance around the liquid hole
I drank in the freedom
of those prepubescent boys
So thrilled and free they were that day
that I became invisible as I passed.
I wondered to myself
Had I ever laughed so fully
in the whole of my existence?
I hope to do so someday
now that I see it can be done.
There are no adults here..
Only confused kids.
Children under the delusion that they know what they're doing.
Youngsters playing make-believe in a world they perceive so solidly.
Every one a narrator, a role-player. Everyone..
Leads in our own stories.
Every thing we can imagine, we can be. Everything we are we imagine..
What creations we can dream!
One great, big game of mummies and daddies, shop keepers, teachers,
cops and robbers, mad scientists, inventors, doctors and nurses, and animal healers,
heroes and villains, and rulers, and rock stars,
warriors,
adventurers,
gourmet mud pie makers;
'anybody I think would be more interesting, more loveable, better than the "real" me'...
A bit of looking, some basic understanding of psychology, and a whole lot of gut-wrenching honesty is required to see that humanity is full of toddlers through tweens:
most of us are prepubescent, so few ever reach mere adolescence.
Billions of babes, tots, small fry, minors, juveniles, and youths.
A whole world bumbling with infants!
Littleuns, in our innocence, taking ourselves so seriously..
In a way, it's kind of tragic.
In a way it's kind of sweet..
Ghosts and Goblins
Witches and Wizards
Halloween Costumes
For two legged lizards
Pirates and Princesses
Mermaids and Sharks
Prepubescent Prowlers
On an evening lark
Tricks and Treats
Pumpkins and Sweets
Masquerading Munchkins
Fill up the streets
Fun and Games
Fine and Dandy
Night Delights
Bags full of candy
How interesting can you be ?
Once whole and confident
Focused Intent
A likely pre set present tense
All my ducks in a row
Ready to cluck out in militant fashion
A prepubescent repetition
Shallow and still
Reflection and refraction
The reinvention of perfection is a fruitless pursuit
Decades of good intentions
Mirrored by calloused intervention
In a frigid current
Bent, by shifting sedimentation,
its perception
Busted back
Crumpled putrid IF- I-CA-tion
Mangled fingerling
Chewed up and spat out
Indistinguishable platitudes
Presented for inspection
Consorted and Contorted
Beyond Recognition
The Reclamation paralyzed, in part, by Bombastic Voyeurs and
The Chief Architect
Whose The Supplicant Saboteur ?
When I turned ten,
I was taught to stay deaf
even when strangers dedicated a verbal erotica
as a lullaby to my prepubescent self.
When I turned twelve,
I was taught to stay mute
even when an acquaintance always lost his pen,
which magically reappeared every time,
right between my thighs.
When I turned sixteen,
I was taught to stay blind
even when the man, with his hand between his pants
undressed me with his eyes.
When I turned eighteen,
I was taught to stay numb
even when a crowded bus turned into
a pervert’s paradise.
Today,
My ears have shut down, my eyes are closed;
My tongue is sliced and my heart is broke
I’ve become so numb; every touch feels cold
I don’t belong in my skin anymore.
So if my body is your pleasure for a price;
Tell me,
What more should I pay,
to claim back what’s rightfully mine?
Prosti-tots, Oh hail!
To the ubberous amounts of stage make -up,
The three year old thong, not made in size four,
Hairspray to threaten the ozone for getting in its way,
Shouting parents, too humble to whisper,
Made-up sex toys, batteries not included: they run off natural sugar instead,
Mistic tans: 30 $
Hair-pieces:50$
Swim-wear:250$
False teeth:500$
Lessons in Poise and dance: 600$
Travel expenses: 1,000$
Living your overaged dreams through prepubescent minors:priceless
There are some dreams money can't buy; for everything else there's child pagents
The walking trail around the lake
crunches like a full bags of crisps
at a Fall football game.
The oak leaf refuse curls frost burnt inward.
The manmade lake still, motionless
a covering of snow cone slurry
drapes the depths.
Prepubescent boys lob mud covered
boulder bombs through the lakes sheath.
Babies born in Winters night
emerge enthroned in umbrella strollers
whooshed in cocoon-buntings by
proud twosomes through the Sping mud.
Jogging homemakers
with fish bottom white legs
hurl themselves round and round
the circular track careening past
young lovers who can’t unplug.
Missing the first kiss of Spring.
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