Unmuzzled and other poems
by Tyler David Jones
‘You’ll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.’
– Walt Whitman, “Faces”
When first I rubbed that oil
on skin, the scent like cat piss
(a flushed throat protest)
I thought it slow:-
the pitiful creep of wolf hair
from thatched dividing line to
full belly, pelting underskin.
I missed the spreading fur
from thigh to ankle
–the thick dark pattern–
black whorls sprouting
musk down soaked
It took months
to feel my teeth full boned
and muscles harden, swollen:
the new broad shape of
me in moonlight.
Now nightly, whether
bloody or just hungry,
the red firm length of me
drips unsheathed on
ass, the hot
and needy scent
the man I am today,
dumb-dog need to
eat prey mate.
No oil or gel will beckon
saltlick semen forth
to breed with
or drop balls or
tear milk teats
from rib wall,
but note, this howl is
now it thunders,
wakes all keepers.
To Forsake Body
‘What does it mean, to forsake a body?’
– Jubi Arriola-Headley, “Daddy”
remember when I offered myself
bodily, envy made manifest
in grasping hands, desperate for your
hesitance, well aware
of the dangers of insistence
(and you, you knew all that it meant
to fear touch yet overwhelm my skin
with your smooth, olive lick of
thighs– quivering bulks
like statues atop earthquakes)
I cupped your balls with both hands,
drank my fill, shared
the precise sound of longing
forged beneath my tongue
and brought you in among bones:
the choke of my throat is not just
tears but an expression of reverence;
the words in your mouth not a kiss
but a need to be heard
Rx (Once daily)
I sit on your lap, all gangly knees and sharp shoulders,
pleased by my own audacity – the guts (you’d say
the balls) it takes to breach your bubble yet again.
My chin on your collarbone, your chest a steady heat,
while you lengthen your breath and wait with me.
I play with your ponytail: bat it enough, you’ll crack.
Tug on your shirt, you’ll react
to me, to me, to me.
I think I should prescribe this: me in your lap,
once daily. Supplemented with kisses,
if necessary (if permitted).
I hope tonight’s the night you finally try it:
twist my top, work me open and down me.
I touch every hole of your belt, like a question.
You toss me back and eat me entire.
Ode to a Massage
Aaron, afghan, show dog,
glazed with fur and silken words,
show off. Investigative, analyst,
curled, perfect and sleek,
touching us because I have allowed it,
shining, flushing, riding, and
I did not cry. I thought I might
flood to ocean at the sight of him.
Instead, I’m aggressive, instinctive,
on display and well revealed,
his soft touch pressure at the fascia,
at the muscle. Every fingertip precise
to prevent a reaction.
The semi-public nature of the rooms, all linked to one another. The single corridor. The constant opening and closing of doors. A vacuum, a fan, his intake of breath:
it was pleasant. I felt…
This heavy feeling as heavy petting. Or heavy petting as heavy feeling.
I am beginning to learn how to tell the difference.
Tyler David Jones is a twenty-seven year old trans poet from the depths of Somerset. He is in his final year as a Creative Writing degree student at Bath Spa University and writes with ever-increasing honesty about his experiences of gender, trauma and queerness. Twitter: @write_or_ty