All the cocks of the world are God, / blooming, blooming, blooming

Little boys and their little toys. Sandy Bay Rowing Club, Sandy Bay. December 2011.

Boys and their penises... will they ever learn to get over them. Judging by the graffiti around these parts, it is highly unlikely.

On this theme, I share with you perhaps my favourite poem about the phallus.

The Fury Of Cocks, Anne Sexton

There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.