if food be the music of love
then i am dining on a symphony.
a pretentious name for simple pleasures.
but can you deny that the melodies in a cup of Ceylon tea
could perfectly grace the program of any philharmonic?
and the memories, images both
sweet and sharp, flooding my mind and
my cunt as i wander the farm women's
cooperative market, stopping here and
there to share the triumphant glow
of two more primary wins
and hopes for the future.
hope for the future.
yes, we can.
tea bought to please you,
my master, my friend,
now warms my throat with comfort and submission.
a stop to chat with the spice man,
recovered from his Reagan ways
speaking now of change and peppercorns,
a future redolent of vanilla and thyme.
last stop the Turks.
spinach borek, spirited stuffed peppers,
and ever more talk of hope and of change.
immigrants, they are cautious with hope,
but repeat the stories of a young generation,
inspired to vote for the very first time.
and when i served these delights
for the very first time,
eyes on your face for signs of pleasure,
had i already kneeled before you for
the very first time? had you twined
your fingers in my inadequate hair
and pulled my head towards you
for the very first time? had you
placed the cold, heavy chain around
my neck, the chain that beckoned
from the pet supply aisle, the
chain that dwelled
deep in your pocket,
had you already choked me
for the very first time?
and my shirt.
was i wearing my
shirt as you tasted the
borek and saw it was good?
a man's white shirt, perfect
and blinding, that nightly
embraces your kitten,
embraces your slave,
a most treasured gift among
so many others - was i wearing it then?
had i already crawled for you, sir?
you commanded my nakedness,
kneeling and vulnerable,
cunt gaping wide at your feet.
with focused intent, you pulled
leather from belt loops,
freeing its cruelty along with your own.
you tossed and i crawled,
the tool of my punishment clenched in my teeth.
and again i crawled,
frightened and dripping,
sinking with gratitude
in submission's sweet swamp.
had you already orderd me over the ottoman, master?
fully unrestrained, had i offered up my virgin ass
to your belt's leather lashes? had you swelled
with the pride of liberated sadism, had you
forced your cock into my greedy mouth, had you
claimed your right to my remarkable nipples.
had you twisted them till the pain stained my face,
had you proven it, master, my lover, my friend,
had you proven to us both that we weren't just playing,
had we accepted the evidence of an internet miracle,
had we bowed to the truth, master and slave,
lovers and friends, that hemp couldn't bind us
as tightly as our words had, that this wasn't
fantasy, that all this was real.
and then did i feed you, sir?
kneeling beside you,
borek and peppers
and eggplant and tea.
and i lay my head upon your lap
and you stroked my short hair
and i purred with contentment
and we sighed and knew peace.