The boy speaks in tongues
and sometimes it is hard,
it is hard sometimes, to relate -
if he will grow up
what is the point.
If he will grow out of his toys,
if he should grow up
what is the point of there being a boy?
Under the skylight he sits and spatters,
he listens intensely to bits and matters -
crackling the spine of his phases,
caressing the eyars. Brushes his cheek
on old wood pine pages,
and flicks, twitches, picks and splatters,
and dims, switches and licks his lips faster -
the sun shines through his wood pine hair.
He likes the warmth, and sits and looks
lightly, light binding his boyish stare;
for it glares too brightly, for it is forever there.
So he lays on old wood pine and shades
his little face, hands and girly nails,
as he rolls and grunts, tries to whistle and slumps,
and scratches and picks the earth
in his nails and licks, just to see what
earth tastes like; and he does as he does
because he knows nobody knows.
And he does as he does because he knows an awful lot -
alas, as suspected, just as he thought!
It tasted of bubbles and mud, wars and chicken like
spud. And he sits where he sits, the sun is his enemy,
but the stuff is still stuffy, his hands getting clammy -
so he rubs and he pulls and he coughs and he tugs, and
he stops to think maybe he does not know all that much.
But one scowls at the rubbish – it is hard sometimes,
as his palms shower down in thundry drums and he
hums and he hums and he hums and he hums.
Such delightful rhythm but speaking in tongues;
his language is daring, his eyes domineering,
and all the while he imagines Peter Pan peering -
badoom, badoom the glory of noise!
Badoom who would have thought he was coy.
His mother will love him more than he does -
but what is the point of getting there first.
Little drummer he is, stardust his toy.
If he hummed in a man’s world,
no one would hear this little boy