Dulce et no decorum

(A personal tribute to that great war poet Wilfrid Owen)

 

Bent double, like a catamite under sacks

Knock-kneed, coughing like fags, we swore through porn

Till on the neon lights we turned our backs

And towards our distant beds began to dodge.

Boys walked asleep. Many had lost their clothes

But moved on lust-shod. All were bare; all tanned

Tanned with cares; dull even to the shouts

Of tired old queens that bitched behind.

 

HIV! Quick Boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting their clumsy rubbers just in time

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or slime

Dim, through the steamy air and dull green light

As under a grey sea I saw him lying.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight

He lunges at me chattering, joking, dieing.

 

If in some nightmare dream you too could pace

Behind the approbation we threw at him

And watched the sad eyes staring in his face

His youthful face, like a devil doing sin.

If you could hear at every jolt, the words

Come gurgling from his compromised immune system

Obscene as cancer, the bitterest of pills.

Like an incurable sore on innocent skin.

My friend you would not tell with such high zest

To young gays boys ardent for desperate sex

The old lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro connubium mori.*

 

* Sweet and glorious it is to die from sexual union