I sing a song about the boys
Rita Hy nes
Yes I killed my man
A lowdown good for nothing cuss
I told him blood was in my eyes
And still he wouldn’t listen to me
Yes, instead of giving him sugar
I put glass in his tea
Victoria Spivey, “Bloodthirsty Blues” 1926
I hurt the boys because I wanted to.
Now, I’m coming for them, the boy gang with big balls whacking back and forth between their thighs. I pull
down their hoodies and scorch their heads with a lighter. I watch them squirm as the smell of burnt scalp hits
their stomachs. Whack-whack, goes their balls.
I find the boys playing with themselves, cashing up in their offices. I make them eat their shirts and ties, their
fingernails, their scabs. Eat until they cry, until snot drips down their chins. I watch them vomit dark pennies.
I’m waiting for the boys — the schoolboys — you think you know. The boys who feel you up when no-one
is around. I make bruises on their open mouths and smash their tongues. They choke, I listen to the gagging
gurgling sound of it go down.
I mind the old boys, who like to laugh so much. I spoon-feed them glass in their care homes and let them
they yarn about the patriarchy, slip off their highchairs, sing sweet high notes. Their bellies burn a new one.
I catch the boys who follow you to the bar and say, what-it’s-only-a-drink. For them, I wear a tight dress and
stab cocktail sticks into their throats. I slip them a vodka coke, to take the pain away, and then do it all over
again.
I date the boys who are boyfriends. I give them blow-jobs and bite down real hard. I spit out what’s left of
their personalities and give myself an orgasm.
I marry the boys who will be husbands. I make them lose hair, years. When they’re sad and lonely — I spit on
them.
For the other boys, who are fathers. The fathers with sons, taught to be boys. I cut their jaws with razors. I
wait until the skin is flesh and finish with some aftershave. And when their sons grow up, I’ll do the same to
them.
Now, I’ll line the boys up, in neat straight rows. All the boys are there. If you can see them then they’re there.
Cupping their bollocks in the palms of their hands and making shapes with their tiny mouths. I don’t have to
listen, they’re yours now. Do what you want with them.
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Cauldron Anthology