They swirl around me like imps
pinching in tender places.
Men.
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?
Yes
definitely
sometimes…
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5 comments:
Wow!
This is a marvelous piece of writing. At first it reads very simply, but what a tidal wave of textual references! beautiful work.
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.
OG, I very much agree with RG, it's very beautiful.
Warm hugs,
Paul.
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.
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...
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