Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 132

132.

what I am through
Dionysian chained blue thoughts
break them or
bend yourself a space
make words confessors
make sentences to keep up the blinding pace
with thoughts that are slow, though even they race
open the face of the clock,
rocking back and forth, bent double
no clock tells time
they all lie
but they love to drop hints
nothing escapes, not a peep
certainly none of the hidden winces
on a face that's hidden quite well
the ideas all say I am begging you
and you motion back, class dismissed,
then comes to me, my dirty mind
a beautiful scene, go, shaker shake
lovely and you know what it makes
me feel
as the timeless walls send out emissaries
to gauge the proud's fall
no, clocks to make time
will never unwind
the kinks and knots
of a permanent obsession
between you and me
possession
makes not a bit of difference
as long as someone owns
this, takes charge
with responsibility, and canters happily
with wicked candor, private or publicly
elicits unquenched wants, needs, moans
nothing could be closer than home
but knowing that the need pierces down to the bone
now can you hear me?
the warp tries to choke me
off before you struggle to know
like a partial muscle must struggle to grow
when there's not enough space to let it show
and maddening the impropriety
of not giving someone what they want
my gods but you're a wicked one
the words need to plead
but the eyes must cease
seething in advance,
while breathing, shallow
through small eyelets wink
a body that's written all over
like scrimshaw on the bawdy captive
and nothing in ink, none the worse for wear
though red does it make the face
the hoots and catcalls show everyone cares,
that's cover, disguise,
forbidden skin, and still can't rise
too late to stop or quell, so again
all thoughts inside a silent shell
wrapped thrice in leather,
strapped and tightly
a banquet where lust feeds nightly
just not the prisoner bound hand and feet
no sound but pleas for release
Bacchus chained such thoughts
but now
though I was almost through
the time went by and far too soon
the fleeing fingers quickly captured
only halfway down the laces
of the first of three binding bodices
choked by what's real again
it knew long scant reference
does know needs won't
be granted, no wishes and only strict
delicious
noes, no flow comes
tis now a rhyming schematic
capricious mystery,
no longer secret,
It's the mistress who makes me keep it.

Did I dream I wrote this or was it worse?
Am I still trapped in this mummy's curse?
Did I think this straight into text,
Or has she come to punish on another pretext?




[Note: This poem is naughty. This poem is exactly like all the poetry I burned in 1992 (?). It's about sexuality that was condemned by the Christian church. Church fucked my head up. I used to be afraid of myself. I sure wish I had not burned all that work. Over the years it has occurred to me time and time again that it was some of the best writing I ever did.]