N.Y.E.

Flashes of 2 vestal virgins
in tank tops and boxing gloves
splashing catty punches
in time with beats
of Serbian techno
in the Jacuzzi
at Liam’s folk’s house
while young stags are
too afraid to
look-on
appear aroused
betray their
natural urges
get accused
of violence or
get ‘parented’
 
some even retire to play
digital fantasies
of killing or
rearing virtual babies
and I’m sad for them
living on a missile that’s
missed its aim
in a dark and blurry
cosmos of gender fires
exploding at midnight over
the freshmen generation
strangled in a web of cotton wool

still, some things are closer
than they appear
while others, further
than they sound
like the dogs on the beach
through my sunbathed eyelids
and New Year opens to a vision of
Venus on a paddleboard