but buried in the bin’s stinking bowels
he discovered something far more valuable
a box of magazines, with names such as Snatch, Screw and Spank
- he smuggled them past a suspicious Mother into the sanctuary of his room
suddenly found himself the most popular boy in school
as acquaintances became best friends, visited him at home
where, in his bedroom, they giggled, gasped - became strangely quiet
- until, one day, his Mother investigated the strange smell beneath his bed
"Filth!" she exclaimed, holding a copy of Snatch at arm’s length
as though in fear of being contaminated by its contents
"Disgusting!" bellowed the boy’s Father, as he brought his belt down
across a pale, exposed back - spattering pain upon a canvas of skin
the boy laughed off his punishment
remained a hero to his friends, but to this day
the sight of sex brings back the stench of rotting flesh
the flush of shame, the sharp sting of sin
its valleys inhabited by creatures of my invention
I was drawn to those mysterious far-flung places
well beyond the flyspecks of civilisation
names such as Victorialand and the Sea of Okhotsk
and at the map’s edge, I sought the end of the world
sailed the seas of my imagination, a geography of dreams
in later years, I find maps have lost their mystery
are primarily practical, represent distance and expense
upon them I discover fractured nations, entire continents of fear
and those names formerly thought of as exotic
are now labels for zones of famine and warfare
maps tell us the truth, are the opposite of imaginative
show us what has already been discovered
like a book of rules, they impose limitations
and the crisscross lines of longitude and latitude
are like prison bars; barriers to possibility