My mistress loves me because I am not hers to keep.
I’m sure this is true.
She told me so herself.
She said, “I get the best of you. The rest your wife gets.”
I cannot deny it.
That I love our secret love,
safe like the internet.
Everyone hides in the safety of their slippers and screen
to enact who they believe they are
and do their best selves because no one really checks,
no one wants to call bullshit,
end the game so
just go with the make believe.
For us too when we are together,
we two for a few,
a cherished time between us to live high just a while.
I mean, who does not want to be loved like crazy?
To meet up in the imagination’s room and lie for a while.
I am not hers,
and she is not mine,
but I can be sure she keeps me
close in her dreams,
so that upon awakening in warmth and quiet
soft pillows under her head
and silken comfort between her thighs
she feels me beneath the sheets as good as there
from so much practiced production
the fantasy we inhabit
every time we meet.
Oh yes, but she is mine.
I’d find more than the prize to keep myself on
or the road
if I were your eyes.
If I saw what you saw,
I’d be wary too,
wondering what next, who else wants what I have,
what I need to protect.
Gazing out from yours,
the world would be clear,
for mistakes are costly and pre-calculations wise.
Peering from under your nose,
I’d assess what’s what,
figure people out,
know their numbers,
predictive labels paying off in fearless dividends.
And if I stared at your desire,
the way you do,
square in her face,
laser cutting pupils
penetrated retinal heart,
a mirror reflection I’d see chestnut fire burning me.
More curious than the man who desires this life-possessing material, the complete mind-body of another along with other chattel he claims, is the woman who falls for him. A woman who mind-swoons when he says, “I would have devoured you…built ice cream banana splits inside you and made you watch me eat it out of you.” Who is she who yearns to be possessed? She tiptoes the schism of fantasy and reality. How much of fantasy is a defrayal of reality, an inversion of sorts, whereby the ego is both inflated and deflated, while lived existence saunters its hips in between. The fuel of not only the libido but of imagination, creativity and desire resides in that longing and play, to offset the anguish of mortality and suffering small and large in any given thought, moment or action.
Nietzsche may have written rightly about suffering as the only link to worth, to creativity and substantiation, but no one likes it any more so knowing it is both means and ends, the value to living. To cede to possession is to return cocooned to the womb, protected, oblivious and cushioned in amniotic pre-knowing. The yearning is primal, like the urge to retract blooming petals of the reaching morning roses sun blushed and vital, so as to erase having opened to the world–ever.
One day I stepped into myself and found love.
I knew it was there all along because I could feel it, give it.
But it was all for others.
And I also found greed and jealousy and hate, disrespect.
And I found those hideously powerful.
They belonged to me.
I felt them too.
But mostly I felt disillusionment and loss.
I felt myself missing.
I feel it.
There is no poetry in reality.
“Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something. If this seems so clearly the case with grief, it is only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact. It may be that one wants to, or does, but it may also be that despite one’s best efforts, one is undone, in the face of the other, by the touch, by the scent, by the feel, by the prospect of the touch, by the memory of the feel. And so when we speak about my sexuality or my gender, as we do (and as we must), we mean something complicated by it. Neither of these is precisely a possession, but both are to be understood as modes of being dispossessed, ways of being for another, or, indeed, by virtue of another.”
― Judith Butler, Undoing Gender
Come to me mine, my mistress,
in the early hours’ pre-day pleasure;
the Indian motel clerk with tossled hair
and somnambulant grin, smell of curry
and the rice crispy bars he displays
with the thinly brewed coffee in plastic,
dark and medium roast depicted
by milk chocolate or unsweetened cocoa
colored beans on the mini cups’ sealed
aluminum foil covering, slowly and
sullenly swaps a key for my hundred.
In the lunch time hour, I come to you
in your bed, while others no wiser for
not knowing as they wend through the
river of their days at school, in traffic,
at work, to whisper in your ear what a
great fuck my mistress is and ever she
is thus, in her leather stripes and boots
lace tongue and slippery warm fingers
that rifle my hair, trace the topography,
thick, hard rubber muscles of my back
labored strong on clay courts in my day.
On late Friday afternoon, I call you to me;
come lie with me and hold my slumber
in yours, in your touch as we bask
in the one-ply sheets of sweat and soap
inhaling cleaner fluid scented polish
and the wafting heat of our skin and breath,
a still life of absolution and post passion
slightly swaying bed of our beating chests
as I sink into pillows and you eye ceilings
waiting for the pulsing to subside so that
we can fall into spooned rhythm of sleep.
Nights I send you one word, a number,
a question mark or a letter you know,
my hot queen at the flash of a moment,
the ready response to my steady call
peppered in night and day fantasies of
owning you, possessing every morsel
of your mind for my own amusement,
making you my doll and my caged cunt
waiting, wanting, wishing for my return
and no one can see you, enjoy your
beauty, sex, or mind–for you are mine.