‘Ore the feverish dunes of Rothmana breaks day,
as the mesmeric, gold-dusted shimmer and sway
of the generous peaks of the land
Echoes she whom I’ve sought so, from lands far away
With devotion that burns like the sand

To her temple I trek, the fates guiding my feet,
The wagon I pull bearing gold, wine, and meat
Till the hills, sweetly splayed, show her sanctum to me
a retiring cave i’ve been waiting to greet
and its mouth, at long last, receives me

Threshing sand from my garb, I begin preparations
Lighting candles, strewing gold, mulling lewd machinations
Pressing herbs to the skin I so need to refresh
Then reclined on the sand, I lay bare my intentions
With a ponderous tribute of flesh

From an olive skinned figure, shy sand lizards clamber.
Obsidian shards housed in bright eyes molten amber
Scan her cave and trespasser within.
Those eyes terrify, yet all that I am
Burns with a fire the sight lights in my skin

Rage at first, a ghastly hiss
My life at stake should Cupid miss
yet my stony conviction does not falter,
This minstrel’s fingers at your service,
Lips to worship at your altar

Now melting, swooning, serpentine,
The touch of your skin like the sweet spell of wine
As your emerald bustle and train
Meet a throbbing, hungry serpent of mine
That parts your hot seamline in twain

The graze of your fangs, the breath from your lips
The touch of your sweltering, satiny whip
Lashing and lapping and torturing me,
Helplessly bound in your titanite grip
On the cusp of pain and ecstasy

As your willowy throat goes drifting lower
With skills to call a cyclone slower,
I think to myself as my eyes start to roll
What marvels those lips that I worship so were
As they’re making to swallow me whole

Now, the beast within you shaking,
the ground beneath us quaking
a rapturous dance, our senses boiling,
lost in feeling, writhing, roiling.
A final surge, our limbs encoiling…

“Oh!” the toiling low roar rolls, until
Though bosoms heave, our forms lie still
So slick with dewy sin - divine
till wrangling my limbs at last to my will
I pour from our bottle of wine

And those ***** spirits sipping
Send your eyes to slumber slipping.
I rise to go, “Goodbye,” and then,
You catch my hand, and tightly gripping
Say, “Please, won’t you do that again?”

I looked in the mirror this morning,
And there was a little tiny change,
An older look to my eyes,
My smile was foreign and strange.

My posture was straighter and taller,
My cheeks were thinner and slim.
I'm changing right before my eyes,
And every day I'm at the whim
of Whoever decides what I'll be
When I'm an adult someday.
When make believe no longer appeals to me,
And I've forgotten how to play.

So what I want to say to this elusive Whoever,
what I want to ask of this woman,
Is "Are all these changes the real me?
And is the real me who I am?"

I’ll share a secret many have
but few reveal in public’s eye
with words I’ll share my predilection
the kink I love to indulge

humiliation is not my thing
******* does nothing in itself
I’ll leave these to other folk
to each their own behind closed doors

nor does dress-up make much sense
acting like I’m someone else
another skin to provoke
when the outcome is perverse

instead I suffer for my joy
a bit of hurt will make my day
when two adults come to play
suffering leads to pleasure’s place

distress is fun when applied
by one consenting to comply
when the lash takes to flesh
the sting is heaven, calm displaced

I’m the M and not the S
with no need for B or D
If you know what I mean
you’re clued into my decree

now my secret is public fare
enjoyment taken at whip’s end
looking for another time
where is my sadist for that fix?

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170507.

I am a terrible human being. **** storming, anger machine that spits hateful things in poetry.
My memory is a landfill, of abuses, and poorly remembered happier times. I struggle to find the truth behind my anger, sadness, and regret. Is it what I remember, forget, or can’t forget that has ****** me up? Her face causes the familiar rage to rise. Voice spewing lies, or what I think is lies. I spent most of my life trying to figure out how it was my fault. I am still trying to figure how it might be my fault. Hyper kid, tired and lonely mother, the formula does not mix. I cannot calculate the value of her violence minus what I did to deserve it. Did I earn it? People aren’t all bad? I can remember going to the movies a couple of times, traveling and listening to music, holidays and presents, but in the present all that is shaded. I am jaded by being locked in an unlocked room, cut off in solitary confinement, because she got busted for the violence. I remember how she had to know what I told the counselor. So I stopped telling them anything.
A smart man knows that human memory is not perfect, so I keep trying to figure out how I deserved to get hit, why I deserved to be isolated, verbally degraded. Part of it had to be my fault, cause people just don’t lash out. I struggle to find out what it was all about because I am scared. If I can’t figure out the reason, if there was no good reason, could I become her?