Romantic Poetry in the Eyes of a Power Player
On (not with) one hand I write this salaciousness
and on (not with) the other hand I caress you –
your face, your awkwardly-placed ears.
This is fantastic, I’m in love. Then I throw you on the bed
with a libertine nonchalance, but that’s it,
I respect bodies of lovers so deeply. I let you creep to
the side of the bed, and I chase you like cats chase mice
and kiss you in one, two, seven places.
You must have heard yourself moan – but pity you,
weakling – collapsing in a heap of kisses. But I
pull you to myself, you resist – I like that –
with your bulky arms, and yet you are weak and helpless
as I bite you on the shoulder and you let out a scream
and I proceed to do as I did, in three, four, seven spaces.
You call what I do to you “idolatry”, but for me
it seems more an iconoclasm. Because I break up
your smile, your dainty face, even your sweet words,
and pull your short hair, forcing you to the ground
as I inflict nail after nail upon your chest, scratching
and tying your pitiable limbs with five, six, seven laces.
And then I smile and let you have me. Such ambivalent
turnarounds you have not learned to memorize – it suits me,
and you sit there dazed by your ordeal for a few minutes
until you realize that you’ve been given the crown
and then you proceed to possess me, possess my
everything, take back what I’ve stolen from you in these
few minutes, reassert your power, and use me severely
but you never exceed my third, second, first paces.