This is one of the things I wanted to write about:

back in March 1975 when I was randy and 22

I had to go into hospital to be circumcised because

my foreskin bled when my penis grew and blew.


As to the operation I can’t remember anything.

When I blearily came too I looked at my bird,

my disco stick, my ding-a-ling, my joystick,

my middle-leg, my rod, my willie, my wood.


It was bandaged like a courset and looked like a dolly,

with two fabric ears and a cute little face someone

had drawn for fun. It didn’t look like a one-eyed

monster or Russell the love muscle or steamin’ semen.


It looked like something the cat had been playing with

as the head was raw and the binding coated with blood

and other crud. I got an erection 40 or more times a day

and each time felt like I’d been shot and taken a bullet.


Each time it happened I swore, bent double with pain

clutching my pole, my John Thomas, my trouser snake.

Everyone thought it funny. The nurses and cleaners flirted

and the filthy old men kept telling me filthy old jokes.


It wasn’t funny. It was torture especially when mother

came round at visiting time and I had to keep a straight face.

It didn’t help when the Senior nurse used to say just relax

when it felt as though I’d been I felt like I’d been embraced

by an iron maiden, was an ex-member of the human race,

because it felt I’d been cubbed in the groin with a mace.




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Greg Freeman

Wed 18th May 2016 10:48

I feel your pain, Rodney, down all the years!

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steve pottinger

Wed 18th May 2016 09:31

I'm laughing. Poems about bodily malfunction never fail to amuse!

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