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


im going to throw up my arms and say,

‘whats 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

cant 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

Image of Harold CouttsHarold Coutts was born in Nelson but lives in Wellington. They write poetry and is currently working on what they hope to be their debut novel. They have a self-published collection of poetry called fissures in flowers, and several poems and short stories across Re-Draft, Starling, Several Hundred Fools, and Poetry New Zealand Yearbook.

Coutts comments: this poem took a long time to write. i had a few lines for months, but nothing i put around them seemed good enough. i spent a while thinking about boys ive seen, and how i found myself writing terrible poetry about them. i found it annoyed me to no end. why should i be spending so much time on these shitty men, when i could be writing about anything else? and so i found the tone. a lot of the lines were inspired by true events, and it was just a manner of slotting them in a way that felt correct. the last stanza is a continuance of my annoyance at myself, as i realised id ironically just written two other stanzas about boys again. funny how that happens.

​Poem source details >

Photographer credit: Maddie Christie