Poetry performs the star-gazer’s trick whereby by use of one’s peripheral vision we can see a star too faint to be seen with the direct gaze. It is at its most effective when making something known that is ordinarily unknowable. It does this not by stating truths explicitly but rather by making us feel the resonances of that truth.

That’s maybe why most of the poems I’ve chosen here are neither about paedophilia, nor have been written (as far as I know) by paedophiles.

In Vernon Scannell’s ‘Growing Pain’ the five-year-old boy’s painful love for a class-mate (‘painful’ maybe because it is unrequited or because the boy does not know what to do with this love) seems little different to our own experiences of a love, the expression of which society forbids, a love rendered ‘unrequitable’, if not always ‘unrequited’.

In Martial’s Epigram we recognise in the poet’s grief at the death of (another) five-year-old child (is five a poetic age?), a slave girl, how love transcends age, status and death itself.

I’ve also risked testing your patience by including a few of my own poems. These were written decades ago and a sufficient amount of time has passed for me to no longer feel that they were written by me so much as someone who used to think he was me.

‘Growing Pain’ by Vernon Scannell

Vernon Scannell

The boy was barely five years old.
We sent him to the little school
And left him there to learn the names
Of flowers in jam jars on the sill
And learn to do as he was told.
He seemed quite happy there until
Three weeks afterwards, at night,
The darkness whimpered in his room.
I went upstairs, switched on his light,
And found him wide awake, distraught,
Sheets mangled and his eiderdown
Untidy carpet on the floor.
I said, ‘Why can’t you sleep? A pain?’
He snuffled, gave a little moan,
And then he spoke a single word:
‘Jessica.’ The sound was blurred.
‘Jessica? What do you mean?’
‘A girl at school called Jessica.
She hurts –‘ He touched himself between
The heart and stomach ‘– she has been
Aching here and I can see her.’
Nothing I had read or heard
Instructed me in what to do.
I covered him and stroked his head.
‘The pain will go, in time,’ I said.

The insincerity of the father’s consolation in the last line evokes how useless ‘truth’ is to soothe the pains of love: ‘The pain will go, in time’ – we know that it is not the pain that vanishes, but ourselves.

‘The Prodigy (for Elizabeth Bishop)’ by C.K. Williams


Though no shyer than the others – while her pitch is being checked she beams out at the audience,
one ear sticking through her fine, straight, dark hair, Nabokov would surely say “deliciously” –
she’s younger, slimmer, flatter, still almost a child: her bow looks half a foot too big for her.
Not when she begins to play, though: when she begins to play, when she goes swooping, leaping,
lifting from the lumbering tutti like a fighter plane, that bow is fire, that bow is song,
that bow lifts all of us, father and old uncle, yawning younger brother and bored best friend,
and brings us all to song, to more than song, to breaths breathed for us, sharp, indrawn,
and then, as she bows it higher and higher, to old sorrows redeemed, a sweet sensation of joy.

‘On the Beach at Fontana’ by James Joyce

James Joyce

Wind whines and whines the shingle,
The crazy pierstakes groan;
A senile sea numbers each single
Slimesilvered stone.

From whining wind and colder
Grey sea I wrap him warm
And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder
And boyish arm.

Around us fear, descending
Darkness of fear above
And in my heart how deep unending
Ache of love!

‘A Sunday Afternoon’ by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Fiona Pitt-Kethley by George Newson
Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Seeking adventures one church-free Sunday,
I crossed the Dives-Lazarus divide
from Ealing into Acton on the bike
I had for winning a free place at ten,
and chained it up to Springfield Garden’s gate.
It was your average London park, complete
with flasher, park-keeper, geraniums,
a bum-splintering see-saw and baby swings.
I soon go talking, and a girl of seven
was pointed out, who always dressed in pink
and used to suck men’s willies in the Gents.
I thought it seemed a funny thing to do.

The boys didn’t use the swings or see-saw,
but stood a little way off, watching us,
hands in pockets. An Indian twelve-year old
crossed the gulf , sniggering, and asked if he
could ‘plant his carrot in my turnip field’.

Soon, we were rescued from moral danger;
the ‘Firebrands’ evangelists descended
asking the question ‘Are you saved?’ We weren’t
too sure, and so they kidnapped and bussed us
to Acton’s Co-op Hall for Sunday School.
A gaggle of children, matted or plaited,
our hands reeking of the metal swing-chains,
we were ready to try anything once
and sang ‘I will make you fishers of men’,
even the little cocksucker in pink.

‘Ad Domnulam Suam’ by Ernest Dowson

ernest dowson photo
ernest dowson

Little lady of my heart !
Just a little longer,
Love me: we will pass and part,
Ere this love grow stronger.

I have loved thee, Child! too well,
To do aught but leave thee :
Nay! my lips should never tell
Any tale, to grieve thee.

Little lady of my heart !
Just a little longer,
I may love thee: we will part,
Ere my love grow stronger.

Soon thou leavest fairy-land;
Darker grow thy tresses;
Soon no more of hand in hand;
Soon no more caresses !

Little lady of my heart !
Just a little longer,
Be a child: then, we will part,
Ere this love grow stronger.

(The poem’s title means “to my little mistress” in Latin.)

quotes from Ernest Dowson:

“I think it is possible for the feminine nature to be reasonably candid and simplex, up to the age of 8 or 9. Afterwards – phugh!”

“Why the deuce does anyone write anything but books about children! Quelle dommage that the world isn’t composed entirely of little girls from 6-12!”

“I’ve been kissing my hand aimlessly from the window to une petite demoiselle of my acquaintance (…) this has temporarily revived me (…) there is nothing in the universe supportable save the novels of Hy. James, & the society of little girls”

‘Endurance Vile’ by T.H. White

T.H. White

When I look at your comely head
And the long fingers delicately live
And the bright life born to be dead
And the happy blood to be shed
And the eagerness that cannot survive
And the trust made to be betrayed
And the hope certain to be cheated cold
And the young joy to age and fade
And the making to be unmade
And the endurance to grow old,

I die within me.  And I curse
The witless fate of man without all cure.
Music I curse, and verse,
And beauty worse,
And every thing that helps us to endure.

At the age of 51, White (author of the sequence of Arthurian novels ‘The Once and Future King’) fell in love with a preteen boy pseudonymously referred to as Zed. They remained friends for four years until the boy drifted away. A letter relates his painful attachment:

“… I have fallen in love with Zed. On Braye Beach with Killie I waved and waved to the aircraft till it was out of sight – my wild geese all gone and me a lonely old Charlie on the sands who had waddled down to the water’s edge but couldn’t fly. It would be unthinkable to make Zed unhappy with the weight of this impractical, unsuitable love. It would be against his human dignity. Besides, I love him for being happy and innocent, so it would be destroying what I loved. He could not stand the weight of the world against such feelings – not that they are bad in themselves. It is the public opinion which makes them so. In any case, on every score of his happiness, not my safety, the whole situation is an impossible one. All I can do is behave like a gentleman. It has been my hideous fate to be born with an infinite capacity for love and joy with no hope of using them.

I do not believe that some sort of sexual relations with Zed would do him harm – he would probably think and call them t’rific. I do not believe I could hurt him spiritually or mentally. I do not believe that perverts are made so by seduction. I do not think that sex is evil, except when it is cruel or degrading, as in rape, sodomy, etc., or that I am evil or that he could be. But the practical facts of life are an impenetrable barrier – the laws of God, the laws of Man. His age, his parents, his self-esteem, his self-reliance, the process of his development in a social system hostile to the heart, the brightness of his being which has made this what a home should be for three whole weeks of utter holiday, the fact that the old exist for the benefit of the young, not vice versa, the factual impossibilities set up by law and custom, the unthinkableness of turning him into a lonely or sad or eclipsed or furtive person – every possible detail of what is expedient, not what is moral, offers the fox to my bosom, and I must let it gnaw.”
from ‘Minor-attracted figures in history‘ (Paraphilia Research Blog)

Wikipedia states – “Broadcaster Robert Robinson published an account of a bizarre conversation with White, in which he claimed to be attracted to small girls.”

‘Epigram 5.34’ by Martial

To you Fronto, my father, Flacilla, my mother,
I entrust with a kiss this little girl:
she was my love and my happiness.
Let not my little Erotion be startled
by the phantom-haunted shadows, nor let
the monstrous jaws of Cerberus make her tremble with fear.

Venerable guardians, but for six days, had she lived them,
would she have seen out her sixth cold winter.
May she play now at your feet,
asking for me in her child’s babble. May the turf
be soft that covers her delicate bones. Earth,
lay upon her gently: she put so little weight on you.

The Sarcophagus of a Roman Girl

Albert A. Bell, Jr. (in ‘The Classical World’ Vol. 78, No. 1) writes the following:

“Martial’s Erotion poems are some of his most highly regarded. Martial does seem to have loved this child very much, so much that he buried her with the full rites befitting the child of a Roman citizen and maintained her grave for years. Such behaviour is peculiar if Erotion was merely a slave child, no matter how charming or precious. It is more comprehensible if we admit the possibility that Erotion might have been Martial’s own daughter… “

Is Bell’s incredulity when faced with an adult who loves a child who is not his/her own progeny an instance of what could be described as ‘kinfatuation’?  that a child only merits love insofar as they are carriers of genes? that a child’s personality can’t amount to enough to earn him or her the love of a non-related adult?

‘near Etna’ by Leonard Sisyphus Mann

Leonard Sisyphus Mann on holiday

This shrimp-pink thrill of skin burnt
Turns up your pleasant hands
From the cool turf of pleasant memories.

It was but a brief distance beyond
Black Etna’s morning-shadow
Where the sun had let fall

Her cloak over my shoulders. I succumbed
To the administration of your small hands,
Clad in cool lotion, you who were once a child

And beneath the ripe orchard and sun
with me; the comfort of your girl-child’s hands
Now the distance of place and time away.

(I’ve just realised that the poem doesn’t really make it clear enough that the lotion was being applied to my sun-burnt shoulders – I imagine that some readers might be inclined to imagine more exciting alternatives…)

‘Today the beach is…’ by Leonard Sisyphus Mann

Today the beach is made of demerara sugar.
When the warm sun collects
Upon my back and dries the sea to dust
I am Salomé to a beachful of Herods,
And I know it. Already a man would hang out
His foot of slack flesh for me to gather up.
I am the little Sphinx gazing out
Across the sandy desert; my riddle lies
In the print my body leaves upon the sand
When I rise for the sea. Herod, I anticipate
Your responses and already I
Am more god than you. I await
The carnage to come as I watch the great ships
Launch themselves upon the small rose of my lips.

‘Night on this Earth is a well’ by Leonard Sisyphus Mann

Night on this Earth is a well:
Things matter; and then a dawn like steel
Plates the sill
But is forever high, remote, eternal.

In the dark doubts matter.
The moon’s face is blemished by craters.
Her way has lost her
Amidst a forest of scattered stars.

Sometimes she leans to draw
From a pool of shadow.
The only of her kind I
withhold judgement on a disfigurement
That might be her beauty.

Solitary child,
What little love I’ve learnt
From this solitude
I’ve learnt from you:

Beyond all night’s dark confusion
This matters more than the cadence
Of morning, its steel blade cutting us
Our allocation of day, suffusing
In the canthus of the sky.

from ‘Among child prostitutes’ by Leonard Sisyphus Mann

This poem was ‘inspired’ by a news story that must have appeared in the press in the late 80s or early 90s about a notorious bar in a tourist resort in Thailand. The story was accompanied by photographs. I particularly remember one photo of a man, who was of about my age at the time, sat at a sea-front bar with a girl of eleven whose arm is draped affectionately round his shoulder. At the time I found this photograph intriguing and disturbing.

The full poem is in eight sections but only two sections of the poem now seem worth retrieving.

The title is a nod to W.B. Yeats’s poem ‘Among School Children


I walk beneath the pavillion of the Siren Bar;
Beneath the counter, feet and crates of beer –
Below the beer-stained and worn wooden floor
The ocean laps, placidly obeying the moon’s
Law, her soft light rebuked by the bulb’s glare.
At a counter a child of six or seven beckons to me;
So I sit there, buy a beer, reward her with trade,
Chat with her mother, tease the child.


Here not of your choosing you resent
The clamour of children’s voices, you feel appalled
By the advances of small boys who interpret
Your indifference for restraint. You ask
Yourself ‘what am I doing here? How did
I get here?’ Are disgusted.
You are my guest, stay, talk
To me. Don’t go.

14 thoughts on “Eleven Poems on Love, Desire & Childhood

  1. POETIC Alltime Greatest ALI – R ingmaster In P erpetuity

    (POETIC synchroni-city: Bowed out ohn SeXentric’s 73rd B’day)

    POETIC ALI stood up, talked back, fought back, never took no crap off no kinda creep!

    POETIC ALI beat PARKINSON/bent-mainstream Beeb/bent-U.$. Establishment, et al times !

    POETIC ALI for ALL persecuted Victims, “If anyone even DREAMED they could beat me. They’d better wake up and apologize !”

    POETIC ALI beats UnkindPrat Parky. Masterclass fer all ineffectual intellectuals. Tho preDICKtably Anglo Fascist BLOCKED ohn YT here from SeXy 74. (Dug ‘Live’ by SeXentric natchrally chillin’ ohn the Hi-Pay weekend shift). Is where Ali NAILS Parkinson & ALL slimeball bent-media psychos, parrotfazed:

    “U were sooo nice back in the Green Room, sayin’ we’re gonna have real friendly lil chat, BUT out here ohn ‘Live’ TeeVee Ur tryin’ to criticize mah religion. But man ah’ve PROVED ah can beat U any which ways. Mentally, Intellectually and Physically. Sucka – U messed wi’ the WRONG man – Ur even DUMBER than U look!”

    POETIC ALI greets KindPed JACKO & Bros.


    1. I’m sad to read of Ali’s death – though I think that the claim that he was the ‘greatest’ boxer was hype – he was certainly one of the greatest but the greatest? hmmm… I’d rate Julio Cesar Chavez over him. And I find a lot of what he said and did distasteful – the taunting of Frazier, calling him a ‘gorilla’ because he had a darker skin than Ali, seems nasty, and his support for the Nation of Islam leaves a bad taste in the mouth in view of what islam has shown itself to be today.

      But, yes, he was entertaining, articulate, and, above all, a great boxer.


    1. I’m glad to read that the poem moved you, Jonathan.

      I’ve come across no evidence that Joyce had any Kind inclinations, but maybe a true artist can somehow access all of human experience, without actually having to partake of that experience.


  2. > anybody remember the Flirty Fishers from the Children of God?
    [ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flirty_Fishing ]

    Yes Tom, and here & elsewhere futile suggestions that similar sects-for-SeX, like failed KindPed Dave Koresh, the Waco wacko in remote BIG Tex-a$$ might be worth one more try?

    But, NOT anywhere in the UnPoetic callous killer Fascist failed Prison States of phoney Anglophonia. Fake posed as so called ‘Free Christian Democracies’ UK/US/CA/OZ/NZ/SA/IE.


    en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Koresh (born Vernon Wayne Howell; August 17, 1959 – April 19, 1993) was the American leader of the Branch Davidians religious sect, believing himself to be …

    And search: “David Koresh”, “David Koresh & young girls”, plus YouTube “David Koresh”

    BIG Bonus: HOT Lynx fer Cool Cats ‘nother lil KindPed Blog that some mighta missed, ‘Pedophiles R Us’ ?



  3. >I’ve also risked testing your patience by including a few of my own poems.

    No problem for me, LSM. For one thing, who could fail to be grabbed by a poem called “Among Child Prostitutes!” I was also particularly struck by your comment on Vernon Scannell’s Growing Pain: “we know that it is not the pain that vanishes, but ourselves.” – not in a poem, but it’s a thought-provoking poetic line, and many of your others are beautifully evocative.

    My favourite poem? “Today the Beach is…” It’s in the striking imagery, from demerara sugar to ships launched on lips, but most of all it’s the theme – Salomé to a beachful of Herods – and what you make of it. Great stuff!

    From the rest, I particularly liked the Martial, especially this:

    “May the turf
    be soft that covers her delicate bones. Earth,
    lay upon her gently: she put so little weight on you.”

    Very tender, which I find remarkable as much of Martial’s oeuvre is decidedly hard-boiled, coarse and cynical.

    As for that agreeably non-PC piece by Fiona Pitt-Kethley, the evangelistic theme reminded me of something:

    we were ready to try anything once
    and sang ‘I will make you fishers of men’,
    even the little cocksucker in pink.

    Fishers of men: anybody remember the Flirty Fishers from the Children of God?
    [ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flirty_Fishing ]

    So maybe the word “even” in the last line should actually be “especially”!


    1. Thanks Tom!

      I fear that sharing one’s own poetry can sometimes be like someone breaking out in a capella singing in the middle of a conversation – unless it’s done extraordinarily well it’s almost certain to be highly embarrassing to the party at the receiving end of it – so your appreciative comments are very welcome.

      >”Very tender, which I find remarkable as much of Martial’s oeuvre is decidedly hard-boiled, coarse and cynical.”

      Very true – Martial’s Erotion poems seem to be marked out from the rest of his work by their delicacy and tenderness.

      The version of the Epigram is actually my own translation. I’m one of those rare persons who really loved Latin at school and have kept it up, intermittently – every few years having a burst of enthusiasm which has me dusting out my dictionary and primer and well-thumbed volumes of Pliny and Martial. I enjoy translating poems – especially ones with a child-love theme – it’s interesting to see what nunances one’s perspective can unearth in the poem that other, presumably un-Kind translators, have not been sensitive to.

      The ‘Flirty Fishing’ entry is quite striking. I notice the Wikipedia page’s ‘See Also’ section includes ‘Love Jihad’. One of my oldest friends came within a gnat’s crotchet of converting and getting the snip when the girl he in a long term relationship with, a moslem girl secular enough to go out with a catholic, refused to marry him unless he converted – to do her justice I don’t think she was ‘fishing’ – but the end result, if she’d had her way, would have been the same.


  4. >”…to suck men’s willies in the Gents. I thought it seemed a funny thing to do.”

    To suck a pen-cil (Aaaah) and write such retro-thoughts, perhaps hints at pre-SeXy 70s kids’ innocence/ignorance of teens’+ ‘toilet humour’?

    For, by SeXy 78 ‘Family Friendly’/SeX-filled best selling Brit rag SUN/Page-3, ‘Whitehouse’ mags et al, sold bottom-shelf in ‘Family friendly’ SeX craZed Brit corner shops & supermarkets.

    A HOT Brit Loli, SeX-craZed at 6 (or ANYtime Dawn thru Dusk) boldly asked SeXentric, “Will U lick my bum?” (Mean’t ‘front bottom’ sNatch – natch).

    LOL-ita XXX

    P.S. Anglo mock-Puritan/Prude ongoing note. Just heard bent-Beeb R.5 Lies BIG Liar Jim (ex-CEOP/1-Eyed Cyclops) Gamble gambling on a nailed-on cert, parrotfazed, “This Far East/Brit ‘Dark Web’ case is just the tip of a tsunami of KidSeX pix & flix made by lying Pedos&Adultos claiming that they R aMused-not-aBused. And for which we/Anglo mock-Puritan fake Child Savers de facto MASS CHILD ABUSERS CRIMINALLY NEGLECTING a VAST 96% NON-SEX Serious Child Abuse MILLIONS of VICTIMS about whom we don’t give a damn! Are totally underfunded to ever Stop – FULL STOP!”


  5. Among child prostitutes

    “I particularly remember one photo of a man, who was of about my age at the time, sat at a sea-front bar with a girl of eleven whose arm is draped affectionately round his shoulder. At the time I found this photograph intriguing and disturbing.” Intriguing and disturbing because it struck a chord at the heart of your innermost desires and fantasies?

    I recall a real event in my life that did just this. I was ten. I managed to escape from my family whilst visiting a leisure park, preferring instead to trainspot at the top of an embankment in a remote corner of the park. I noticed a canvas tent pitched in the long grass there, and as I stood waiting for a locomotive, I heard giggling coming from within the tent. Before I could flee, a boy my age emerged dressed only in underpants; he spotted me. He said something like “We have company!” A second similar-age and similarly-attired boy then emerged, and the two of them immediately suggested I join them! Being quite shy, I declined, and so they disappeared inside the tent giggling. That shook me to the core for days not just because I knew precisely what they were doing, but because I so badly wanted to be with them, and yet I did not have the confidence to do so. Big regret, big awakening, and the catalyst for constant craving!


    1. >” Intriguing and disturbing because it struck a chord at the heart of your innermost desires and fantasies?”

      Yes. I remained quite naive about paedophilia and chidren till quite a late age – I mean, the culture is not exactly overflowing with images and examples of adults and children interacting lovingly and romantically – so even though I knew about paedophile liberation (having read Tom’s book, amongst others) it was knowledge that I had never really experienced – like the difference between knowing Antartrica is cold in Winter because you’ve read an article about it, and knowing because you’re stood there in a middle of a howling wind in mid-January. In nothing but your y-fronts.

      The result of this absence in our culture is that, in my youth I ‘missed’ many of what I would now identify as ‘opportunities’ – when some little girl or boy approached me in a way that indicated they wanted some kind of sensual involvement with me. Because my culture and upbringing hadn’t prepared me I was confused by their approach and, like you with your bitter-sweet memory of the two boys in the tent, my instinct was to restore a neutral order to things. Of course you were only 10 – I’ve been missing opportunities for decades!


  6. Leonard, so many touchingly, achingly, sensitive sweet lines.

    Brave Fiona’s ‘Springfield Gdns’ this KindPed’s very personal fond fave among a fount of ‘Green Remembered Thrills’.

    Sadly such fine pearls, not for far too many thick sick swine in our lowbrow slime SUN-reader times.

    (Profuse apologies to the billions of fine intelligent swine brutalized bullied and eaten by lowbrow humanity.)


    1. glad to read that you enjoyed the visitation of the muse to my blog!

      >”…to suck men’s willies in the Gents.
      I thought it seemed a funny thing to do.”

      I’m still scratching my head over what she means by that ‘funny’?

      funny haha or funny peculiar?


  7. Not quite a poem, but, what defines a poem anyway … the following piece is from the pen of Hakim Bey (aka Peter Lamborn Wilson) whose work I discovered once I had purchased two P.A.N. anthology volumes from a back-street gay bookshop in Amsterdam nearly forty years ago. “We share the same enemies …” continues to sum things up for me …


    Wild Children

    THE FULL MOON’S UNFATHOMABLE light-path – mid-May midnight in some State that starts with “I,” so two-dimensional it can scarcely be said to possess any geography at all – the beams so urgent & tangible you must draw the shades in order to think in words.

    No question of writing to Wild Children. They think in images – prose is for them a code not yet fully digested & ossified, just as for us never fully trusted.

    You may write about them, so that others who have lost the silver chain may follow. Or write for them, making of STORY & EMBLEM a process of seduction into your own paleolithic memories, a barbaric enticement to liberty (chaos as CHAOS understands it).

    For this otherworld species or “third sex,” les enfants sauvages, fancy & Imagination are still undifferentiated. Unbridled PLAY: at one & the same time the source of our Art & of all the race’s rarest eros.

    To embrace disorder both as wellspring of style & voluptuous storehouse, a fundamental of our alien & occult civilization, our conspiratorial esthetic, our lunatic espionage – this is the action (let’s face it) either of an artist of some sort, or of a ten- or thirteen-year-old.

    Children whose clarified senses betray them into a brilliant sorcery of beautiful pleasure reflect something feral & smutty in the nature of reality itself: natural ontological anarchists, angels of chaos – their gestures & body odors broadcast around them a jungle of presence, a forest of prescience complete with snakes, ninja weapons, turtles, futuristic shamanism, incredible mess, piss, ghosts, sunlight, jerking off, birds’ nests & eggs – gleeful aggression against the groan-ups of those Lower Planes so powerless to englobe either destructive epiphanies or creation in the form of antics fragile but sharp enough to slice moonlight.

    And yet the denizens of these inferior jerkwater dimensions truly believe they control the destinies of Wild Children – & down here, such vicious beliefs actually sculpt most of the substance of happenstance.

    The only ones who actually wish to share the mischievous destiny of those savage runaways or minor guerillas rather than dictate it, the only ones who can understand that cherishing & unleashing are the same act – these are mostly artists, anarchists, perverts, heretics, a band apart (as much from each other as from the world) or able to meet only as wild children might, locking gazes across a dinnertable while adults gibber from behind their masks.

    Too young for Harley choppers – flunk-outs, break-dancers, scarcely pubescent poets of flat lost railroad towns – a million sparks falling from the skyrockets of Rimbaud & Mowgli – slender terrorists whose gaudy bombs are compacted of polymorphous love & the precious shards of popular culture – punk gunslingers dreaming of piercing their ears, animist bicyclists gliding in the pewter dusk through Welfare streets of accidental flowers – out-of-season gypsy skinny-dippers, smiling sideways-glancing thieves of power- totems, small change & panther-bladed knives – we sense them everywhere – we publish this offer to trade the corruption of our own lux et gaudium for their perfect gentle filth.

    So get this: our realization, our liberation depends on theirs – not because we ape the Family, those “misers of love” who hold hostages for a banal future, nor the State which schools us all to sink beneath the event-horizon of a tedious “usefulness” – no – but because we & they, the wild ones, are images of each other, linked & bordered by that silver chain which defines the pale of sensuality, transgression & vision.

    We share the same enemies & our means of triumphant escape are also the same: a delirious & obsessive play, powered by the spectral brilliance of the wolves & their children.


    1. Wow! there’s a lot in this poem (I certainly think it’s a poem) – I think I’ll have to give it a few more reads.

      But what about Hakim Bey!? I think that he raises some interesting questions and avenues of thought – most notably the relationship of anarchists to paedophilia.

      The anarchist who wrote the following article proves himself to be as pusillanimous as, and to have no better idea of the true nature of paedophilia than, a run-of-the-mill Sun-reader, despite he himself acknowledging that:

      >”Within the anarchist world, there has been a pedophile thread in evidence for over a century. The journal Der Eigene published at Berlin from 1896 until 1933, was pedophile and anarchist”

      clearly he has he never thought to investigate the reasons such a ‘thread’ has persisted – and just bought, unquestioningly and wholesale, into the default and only narrative society pushes out on the subject.

      Congrats on your courageous free-thinking and questioning of the capitalist narrative, Mr so-called Anarchist!


      >”Hakim Bey is very clearly a guru among those who understand sex between adults and children as a legitimate lifestyle choice, rather than as sexual abuse.”

      >”In this writer’s opinion, the pedophile writings of Hakim Bey indicate a general deceit in his philosophy, and are evidence that his concept of the Temporary Autonomous Zone is inspired by opportunism, not by good will. He presents arguments for human freedom while actually wishing to create situations where he is free to put his deranged sexuality into practice.”


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