Friday, December 5, 2008

Help me, Hieronymous

They swirl around me like imps
pinching in tender places.
Memories of men
fantasies of men
men real and imagined
men I have touched
men I have kissed
men who have spanked
my ass or
my mind.
I’m dotted with bruises,
a permanent collage of black and blue
displayed for my eyes alone.
At odd moments the suffering renews
and I squirm in my seat with pleasure and pain,
panties stained with the tears of my need.

The pinching imps yet unmet
torment worst of all,
a dangling string of desire
doomed to remain unsoothed.
Perhaps it’s for the best,
protection from disillusion.
Can reality ever live up to
the seductive power of words?



Remittance Girl said...


This is a marvelous piece of writing. At first it reads very simply, but what a tidal wave of textual references! beautiful work.

oatmeal girl said...

Oh no, RG, I'm the one who should say "wow". A compliment like that coming from you is worth more than I could possibly say. Thank you so much.

Actually, I'm somewhat curious as to what textual references you see. I love when my demon muse explains my poems to me, showing me things I didn't realize I had done.

I actually wanted to illustrate it with a Hieronymous Bosch picture, but couldn't find one with the kind of image I had in mind. So I cheated and stuck him in the title.

Paul said...

OG, I very much agree with RG, it's very beautiful.
Warm hugs,

Anonymous said...

this is a rollicking good read, i love it. nothing like imps to keep you on your literary toes. It really races off the page, and i cant wait to eat it up.

oatmeal girl said...

Thank you Paul, as always.

As for you, Anonymous, I never would have thought of the word "rollicking" to describe it... perhaps your comment comes from an imp's perspective? As for the rest of your comment: it's not so much the poem that needs eating as it is the poet...