This online world of bluebeard men
Contends the want of human touch
In search of random sex
Dazzling and denying
Disembodied lust
Must always be a partial thing
Propositioned by a fantastical beauty
Sweated over the keyboard
Its every hour shaped as hermetic entreaty
As acres of men gnaw away
At the simple frailty
That schemes within their DNA.
Here, human connection
Is riven hard
By the list of inexorable exemptions
Where the pursuit of the perfect
Modulates its unattainable desire
The ache of surrender sorely bereft.
The right curves and weighted base
The right level of penetration
Are all buffed into prickly shape
As though the natural world must be staunched
Glimpsed in that unreal gaze
Each counter pane briskly polished
Nothing to risk:
“And by the way:
I don’t kiss!”
In this frightened refuge
Loneliness barricades itself
With IPad and web abuse:
Bluebeard’s doors may never be opened.
Gar Jones: March 2018