Do fiddle together, they say,
as if man lust were in want
when his smooth, cool music
fingers my girly drives
are I ugly – not gorgeous?
Some waxy, like rust,
saying one of thousand
not sad, but like rain
are sky-suited.
(Fridays are Magnetic Poetry day. Play online. Image from personal collection.)
Young men are pursuing me,
in my dreams, I am too old
and wily not to recognize
the evil of this intent
wonder if I’m being stalked
by a stroke, or worse –
I wake up, overheated
fling the bedclothes off
as if they are the offending
infiltrators, dismayed to see
how little I have slept, knowing
that the relief will now pass me by
Young men possess a virility
redundant in my life – sexuality
long ago sacrificed on the altar of cancer –
their presence is disconcerting at best
stirring up old emotions, luring me
into nostalgic memories – trickery, I say
to think that masculinity would entertain
intimacy with a mad old hag like me.
(The Daily Post prompt: entertain.
Image: Daily Mail)
Momma never taught me
to respect myself, to value
my femininity; she said:
Boys will be boys, and girls,
I heard, are entertainment,
but I ain’t no games table –
constructed for versatility,
adaptable to men’s whims,
waiting around for the game
to give me life – no hostess
for contests of male superiority,
not an object to be manipulated –
juveniles playing with sticks
looking to sink their balls
in my pockets – I am done
with delinquent impudence,
tired of objectified attention,
need to lock it all away, until
I can rid myself of these
counterproductive sentiments,
find me an authority to override
Momma’s tainted perceptions.
(Image: britainfirst.net)
(
I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.
You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood
Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me
you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…
So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted
than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach
something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.
(Image: classicmoviestills.com)
Back and forth I travel searching
for her – retrace every bend, curve,
detour – back to the water, the sand,
the beach where I lost her; haunted by
those velvet brown eyes – bedroom eyes,
they told her, men with greedy loins,
calculating – I lost her to the lure of
alcohol, to the pounding beat of drums,
in those smoky corners so far removed
from the purity of her dreams….
it’s been an arduous journey, some days
so lost in the daze of forgetting; I cycle
back, memories of manhood exposed,
egos craving stroking, how she learned
what men wanted, learned to numb
the disappointment with fast-talk
and all-nighters, suppressed tears,
discovered that words hold no promise,
and water is deep, and going within
is a dark, foreboding place, and worth
is shrouded by the shame of discovering
that even the father she adored was not
as she’d thought, and that this primal
urge she felt for mating was a trap
designed to eradicate her beauty, not
enhance it…I need to find her, hold
her afloat in sacred waters, help her feel
the healing light of a thousand women’s
hearts all bleeding as one, all warped
by the same convoluted messages
about womanhood – that lust is sinful
and copulation a man’s domain, and
that in order to be espoused she must
forego her own nature, tame the wild,
settle for loss of control…but as much
as I travel these lonely roads, I cannot
find her, the traces of her innocence
washed away by the tides, lines now
on my aged face…if you see her, please
hold her close, protect her from beasts,
hold her until the beauty of her being
is a solid knowing, and the shame has
been vanquished; and that being a vessel
for man’s release is not her only purpose.
Patience does not apply
in a family lacking ease,
nor is loyalty gifted…
my sister – a fiery red
corvette fuelled by hate
would slaughter kin
lived for the fight,
gleaned energy from
sinful behaviours
despite hard-work,
tasted power in attracting
meat – a fleshy cow –
processed sweethearts
with abandonment,
hardly caring, despised
public scrutiny – her world
a miniscule burlesque show
fluttering raw flesh inviting
scavengers – appeased out of
necessity – she shopped crowds,
possessed a light that shouted:
“Open for business” – dared
not endure loneliness, desperate
to annihilate the past –
her heart, a massive-winged
avenger, pummelled by
the memories of a brother
her twin – torn from her
by a deserting father – left
dying like an unwanted pest
an agonizing plummet
into an unendurable darkness
from which she sought any
infiltration, yearning to
pierce, to relieve, the musty
hold of her ground-up reality:
no virtue in patience,
no prize in loyalty
each woman for herself
(Image: insanityismyreality.deviantart.com)
Temporarily positioned
in a 24-hour carnival,
gambling on progress;
sleeping with delusion –
yet another attempt to
secure intimacy missed –
wheelchair accessible
only if accompanied,
a woman out of time,
anxiously dreaming of
a room lit joyously with
the surprise of pairing –
instead disoriented, I
seek guidance, am re-
routed, willingly accept
balance, emotional
stability suffice, I am
unfinished business
attempting to move on
memory not working –
a classic submersion
dulled by immobility
desire packaged, laid
down, sliding into panic,
self abandoned in favour
of a prophecy of denial –
this 24-hour carnival life.
(image from http://www.listzblog.com)
Imagine befriending genius –
accepting social awkwardness
embracing habitual quirks as
incubation for enlightenment.
If I could strip down, release
preconceived notions, agendas,
lie naked, exposed, in shallow
waters, intimately entwined,
unencumbered by sexuality
or gender protocols, I would
shake this sensual impotency –
become one with creativity.
As my father, wounded, I
am inhibited by my feminine,
opting for compliance over
strength, a conditioned identity.
His mystery extends, flawless
sculpting, archetypal secrets,
pretense proclaiming normalcy,
usurping vitality, genius stifled.
Crazy catches me –
semi-conscious/ zoned out –
body slams me,
hot mouth pressed on mine
suppressing objection
(as if I’d object)
working my juices
my mind overboard
passion flaming
I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow
Modesty intervenes
compelling flight –
flesh torn from flesh
prematurely –
this seduction,
taunting me in youth,
surprisingly vital still
I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow
Breathless,
heart palpitating
loins throbbing…
abandoned again.
It was only a ghost
a spectre from the past
mocking me –
false ecstasy.
(Linked to dVerse pub where desire and sexuality are on the board tonight.)
One Woman's Quest 