He gave me years, all his words from scant supply,
Yet refrained to permit scarring, lines and trails on his back,
To mark my presence, he shall not:
He protects himself from the tunnels of gratuitous force,
Not to allow his skin to tear nor fold for me,
Or his blood to change course and leak
Solely from the rhythm of my wounding.
My mini kingdom in those inches of your body,
Contrasting with your unscathed skin;
With his refrain, cautionary security,
The cotton wool placed prematurely
There without a single scratch or scour.
Any visible display of our impulses unworthy;
Some silly story inferior to his construction
As though nine forgotten months were more
Than some conscious hours we could recall.
Meanwhile in unfurnished mirrors you witness
Uneven reddish colours hiding undercover dances;
I watch in glee as layers pile up and shroud the relics,
Of all that bloody lust and soft sinking skin
The razor cast its cruel cuts under the opal expanse.
My rampant vigour and ardour finds outlet,
Amid those freckles arranged as a playground,
Of flesh, patchy redness, and rising segments.
Minor works of restoration begin anew,
Your sleep infused with precious repair,
Weak, weak; work to erase me,
Though never refuting me and my mastery
Since again the warm, pulsing mass of tissue shall yield,
As his cold, sombre veins live on unmarred:
Static, unwrought, unglorified,
Nine long months yet no one can cherish it- pity.
Let’s bask in a carnivalesque celebration of our making,
A bountiful collection of sporadic twists
Of cells coalescing to my lively melody,
A tune to which the god-worshipping sadists dance,
To reinforce the upmost sanctity of our carnal mould.
To camera exposure we expose your earthly tenderness,
A motionless still of an active festival in your blood,
The picture is akin to the frozen statue,
But the moment of its capture was not.
As though under a still sheet or sheath,
Binding, agile vibrations nestle together in free commotion,
Yet guided by my strokes, your twists, your ticklish jolts.
Meek whimpers and my orders the overture to wild dances,
We, the puppeteers of flesh, blood, and bone.
Marks are but a shrine to the maker,
While silence stands against nature,
Designed to cry out and piss blood vulnerably
We capture snippets between and within eras
As his statue rests closed and still with no dance beneath.
We all know stone statues are nothing like flesh:
No honest testimony to mankind and man-makers,
Who since dawn have choreographed dances from violence,
As exposed gladiators, foes, furious mistresses
Splashes of blood have leaped from flying swords withdrawn
A chain reaction securing survival in a brutal world,
Just as bastards born of sordid sex
Carry the inborn anger denied to the stale-made legitimate.
To ignite vast displays of ferocious gore,
Or smaller rituals of the same nature,
Is to supply a perpetual outpouring of stoicism
The valiant spirit of endurance to face danger,
While passive preservation gives
Since flesh has never bonded or conjoined with marble,
It remains only that still exposure devoid,
Of the glorious dance beneath.
P.S. Please make allowances for my total disregard for poetic metre, stanzas and so forth. The lines are so imbalanced that it’s painful to the eye of a master.
