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harold coutts

poems about boys

my first order of business in this poem
is to discuss how i want to stop writing
poems about boys:
it felt aimless and painful to be entered the last
my asshole is no odeum for a performance
churned forth from loneliness
dancing among the boys again and
abiding disregard from the masses is
a hurtling of bones; ceremonial over parapets
falling is an art form if you wink on the way down.
my eyelid is working overtime

i’m going to throw up my arms and say,
‘what’s the point?’ to my reflection for four hours;
the last time a boy made me feel anything
was when i listened to sophie by goodshirt
a week ago. pressed replay on the footpath
and the wind grabbed my hand
a more romantic act than forced flowers
can’t believe togetherness comes from alcohol
and still learned loneliness. kissing in the moonlight
because we miss the touch. now i want to
scour my skin of you

my second order of business in this poem
is to actually discuss how i want to stop writing
poems about boys:
i am immortalising those who wrong me
and those who i have wronged. it holds a sourness
to my lips and parts them like a gate
sucking dick only does so much for the psyche
but my, have i flown. until i find a love that stains
my skin, stubborn around each arm hair, i will stop.
the moon will hawk a name at my feet
and then i will write again

i am growing a garden

stems of lavender burst through skin to be cleft; a sequence
to be observed. dark shades against a cream, a peach—under
dragon fruit lips. ’twixt mine own kissing approach, asunder
they become. vampire smile draws me in with frequence.
your cheeks simmer as roses—petals below as beacons
through the dermis—crackling round as cutaneous thunder.
irises from home behind filaments of pure wonder,
a blink and eyebrow arch so careful and yet it weakens.

i am growing a garden and you are my foundation
in the sense that i am sowing the seeds you have given
me. the water washes over me, given by the flume
to be conditioned for your return at next lunation.
i cannot wait for the touch, the unfurl, to be driven;
i cannot wait to catch your vision and to bloom, bloom, bloom

harold coutts was born and raised in Nelson but calls Wellington home. They have a self-published poetry collection called fissures in flowers. harold spends a lot of their time reading and working on what they hope will be their debut novel.