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Image for the poem she suffers, to call it love

she suffers, to call it love


    you are art designed by your own hand.
    you are my poem.

I make you stand in the center of the room, having dispatched
you from your atelier. you remove your clothes, & I observe you
where you kneel.  this woman you’ve become, who is beautiful
beyond beauty.  so unlike me.

beauty that arouses the savage of my sex cravings. I must
abuse & violate you, to rape the gentle permissiveness of
my uncertain girl.  because that’s how I am designed.

(in my contorted philosophy,
a woman is not defiant who rebels;
a woman is defiant who takes it.)

I become priapic, to invade your mouth: my fellatrix, my
grape crusher. by rote of my madness, I strike your face,
as you labor in your sublime bondage.

when you recline, I lick the maligned paradise of you, burning
my tongue on the small fires of your flesh. brutally, I penetrate
the cloven vineyard of your sacrament. hardened but unsatisfied,
I turn you, to drive into your most secret corridor, which, until I
corrupted you on some weeping yesternight, has banished men.

having shown me thus what a bad girl you are,
you submit to your spanking…


the door is never locked.

I think one day I may beat you more than you can endure, say things
that will make you cry the tears of your soul. call you vile names beyond
filthy whore, miserable slut, stained with the emissions of sexual
humiliation. you will perceive that you’ve suffered enough, even for love,
which ordains extraordinary suffering. and you will abandon me,
to chase your gypsy heart.

there will come a quietness then, a coma of silence  –
there will be neither art, nor poetry…


(Art: Daido Moriyama)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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