A Requiem for Love and Sex

It is not that I wish to move my salty lips and snaky tongue. As poet I’m bound by, and obligated to, darkness … and Death is patient with certainty.

Tonight, I will visit death.

For days I’ve sensed the arrival of this juncture but only realized the precise time a few minutes ago. Knew it as I climbed the last flight of stairs (ten steps in all – a countdown if I’d thought to count) and slid my guilty (stolen) key into the iron gate’s keep-me-out lock.

The rooftop is my quietude and I will miss such a faithful servant. Owing to a fat moon, all the sentinel shadows are in place. Glitters of stars ensure that I know which way to fall. The wind tugs at my clothing and not wanting to deny its desire, I unclothe and I'm given a flesh suit of goose bumps in return.

I walk like a sloth. Not because of doubt but as a result of wanting detail to adorn my final memories.

The concrete is cold and rough. My soles fill the gaps; no doubt granted red pin spots on their skin as evidence of passage. My toes are widespread. The air massages coolly between them. My ankles are stiff, my knees the same. No oil will help; nevertheless I grow no fear that my legs will be unable to walk me to my designation. My scrotum is tight. My penis hides so that I cannot see it through ginger, pubic hair unless I bend. I do not bend. My stomach sits coiled. It’s my cold and not my ulcer that makes it so. My hairy chest swells with air and pride. My nose is barricaded by snot and so it is my mouth that invites all the gases and ejects those that it does not like. My hair, blonde and dirty, waves from my head. There is slight regret that I’m not shaved, for in weather like this the sensation would have been likened to the pleasure of a stranger’s fingertips washing my hair, caressing my scalp. My eyes are widened with tingling wakefulness.

It’s a slight down slope to the thigh high wall. On this storm free night, it is I, and not rainwater, that is directed.

I have arrived.

The wall gives chair to my buttocks. My feet remain grounded.

The moment is not yet for I must dispossess that which I’m not allowed. I have a story to sacrifice. By all means, clog your ears with wax. It is not that I wish to move my salty lips and snaky tongue. As poet I’m bound by, and obligated to, darkness … and Death is patient with certainty.

Consequently, I address Love…

A REQUIEM FOR LOVE AND SEX

Do you intend to make me commitment’s host,
make me laugh and cry,
make me walk and talk with ghosts,
love me and leave me to die?

Or is it…

A succumbing to the slavering of your tongue,
to have your thighs writhe in panting time
and your nails to claw for blood,
have your waterhole filled only to drown me deep in it?

“Love” you reply
Did your mother forget to teach you
that love is a myth
and the reality of myth is pain?

Welcome to my dream-mare
Hear the wet women howl beast-like
whilst hunting me
with skulking intentions

Watch me impale you
with my smoking dick,
pump blood into your head to watch your eyes explode,
scrawl my name into your mess before you dry

No more will you tempt me
with the sodden-leaf smell of experience
or velvet lies of devotion
If God be breasted, I’d understand why I don’t understand

I suck in your love to spit it out,
outstretch my arms to embrace
the only lover I know,
Loneliness.

Note: This poem has nothing to do with physical violence. The loss of love is a mental battle, a torment when it involves betrayal. Such pain is for the young.

Image by Adrian Malec.