Blue, Green, Red and Purple: Toy Boys
Betty Collins's poem probes the subject of sex - and allied matters.
Hot sex! That's all you guys want to hear about!
You're all obsessed with the image of Dustin Hoffman
being unwillingly seduced by a rabid, elderly, all-of-forty babe,
peeling black nylons off silky legs:
Lusting for it,
Begging for it,
and you wish it was you.
But, get stuffed, guys, this steamy vision arises in miasmic
fashion only from the turmoil of your own inflamed psyches
(and that's being polite about it).
Do I have to remind you that Dustin Hoffman ran off,
Ran distractedly and madly up and down the screen
And couldn't get back to 'Elaine' fast enough—
That's how much fun he thought he'd had with 'black-nylon-stockings'—
(I forget her name)
And who the hell wants a short-arse like Dustin Hoffman anyway—
(unless the myth about the relation of nose size and the size of other parts is true).
And, come on, guys, if all Elizabeth Taylor could get was Larry Fortensky,
What do you think us ordinary mortals get?
In our luscious forties with grown families and
Our own houses and cars and good jobs?
Well, I'll tell ya—
An assorted bunch of incompetents
looking for a place to lay their weary whatsits
Is who.
That's who.
And the best of those that aren't actually admittedly outedly gay
Have instead or even as well
Mother fixations, Erection Problems, Suicidal Depressions, Psoriasis,
Drug addictions, Alopecia Areata,
One or the other or all of them together.
And so—BANG—(not quite the word)
Goes any chance of SEX: (breathe):
All you need is a soft, soft, shoulder
And a soft head into the bargain—
'TOY' is right—'IT' might as well be made of plasticine or putty.
And that's before you get to the Confidence Tricksters,
Won't Works,
Can't Works,
And those that
Frankly, couldn't give a damn, My Dear:
Knowledgeable, charming, absolute bastards,
Who make a living out of being 'Private Entertainers'—
(That is, they'll invite themselves to your house, and
while drinking your wine, eating your food,
driving your car, and using your telephone—
they always have lots of friends to call.)
be very, very, sympathetic about all of your problems:
your children . . . the guys at work . . . your ex-husband…
Anything other than your real needs.
Is this a poem; I dunno, really;
Not unless probing and prodding where it hurts most
Is what poetry is all about?
