I hate to disappoint
those of you
expecting something else,
eye-candyland or a description
of a young celebrity’s cock and balls,

those who fingered this page
from the table of contents
expecting sweet, shirtless photos of idols and sugar-laced playthings
gallivanting and parading from
Hollywood nightclubs and
award-show afterparties,
searching for the tantalizing tease
of Zac Efron
who makes teenage girls and gay men of all ages
fan themselves with the quietly ripped pages
of library magazines
(do not fret if you, by chance, find yourself
identified by these actions yet do not fall
into these categories).

I know the title of this poem
feeds me the lovesick and perverted,
the stroked-out and bothered,
the admirer and the stalker,
the screamer and worshipper,

those whose computer screens and bedroom walls have become
windows into mansions and the means to peer into
tipped over trashcans filled to the rim
with discarded personality
and stained underwear.

This is one for you, who have come
here expecting flesh but finding
nothing except words
and who stay anyway.

This is for you, the seeker, the lonely,
the horny, the dreamer,
whose pillow becomes
the hot-blooded American Royal
at his handsome peak,
at his rolling boil,
at the moment
when you reach out and burn yourself but
do not care,

touching places beyond
instant gratification,
instead of making you tingle
what you find instead
makes you think and consider,
leads you perhaps to write Mr. Efron a love poem
punctuated with

drops
       of
sweat

in iambic pentameter

to post on
the message board of
his official website.

© Bryan Borland