Prisoner in a Palace of Exile

"PENIS ERECTUS NON COMPIS MENTIS":
perhaps someday it shall be an appropriate epitaph,
but, for now, the doors to sleep - real sleep -
are all closed & bolted.
I arise from the deadlock of defeat
& turn once again to concupiscence,
once more drafting the architecture of collapse.
I have abandoned the Truths that are well-known.
I seek to understand the Truth of flesh,
to chart the telemetry of passion.
I am not addicted to the orgasm.
It is the embrace with which I am obsessed -
journeys into a magickal fluid.
It is with the metaphysics of friction & centripetal force
that I am possessed.
Blessed & thin is the skin of ecstasy;
I mean to claim it...
Women, children, & priests, first!

The sad-eyed prophet, the saint of lust -
my prayer for you has begun.
We who, in our separate ways, stormed the gates of Yes,
fondling the pinnacles of flesh,
licking all orifices,
bodies slick with the sweet sweat of sex.
We who are ever waiting for things to become as they are.
Beyond the ritual of lies
will you wear my arms like an amulet?
Will you swallow my body like an ocean?
Will you teach me nakedness?
Me, who was arrested for indecent display
though I was fully clothed & confined -
will you expose yourself to me?
We have not yet learned betrayal
but I live in a house with many exits.
Ripped apart by nightmares & by dreams,
eyes glinting with viscera lust,
loins blazing with desire,
I hunger for the Rite of Shiva.
I have no nymphal enchantress
to transform my loneliness to sleep.
I am taunted by ghosts of memory -
ephemeral apparitions & empty spaces.
The blood of my vision is once more coalescing in your shadow.
I come to you begging in a body that is shiny & old.
I come well-versed in the verbs of neglect.
I come naked & raw.
My body is like a Salvation Army overcoat
but its all I have to offer you -
this, & my poem.

There is little more enticing
than a woman in a low-cut blouse bending
to tie the laces of her shoe.
You did not show your tattoo to everyone
but you showed it to me -
then you rose onto sleek apathy-proof legs.
You were wearing blue eyelids & an eat-me smile.
Walk into my eyes.
Walk in red silk & black lace.
Let me cajole you with long angel plumes -
feathers from those who can no longer fly.
Your skin is soft, your power complete -
My glance is hungry; my need is precise.
Yes, I will love you very carefully...
I outlined moist pink lips with a slip of my tongue.
I perused the satin cleavage of pink underthings.
You intoned the Benediction
with the monstrance of your thighs, and I
gratefully accepted the grace of the Host...
Moving with careful articulation,
as your tongue once did over my body -
Will I outlive this gimmick called love?
Relics can afford no shelter
but I miss the excitement of your smell;
the mysterious allure of your dewy hiatus
torrid with hiddden nectars;
the delicately furry cleft of your thighs;
the relentless softness of your breasts;
the uncompromising curve of your buttocks;
the naked goodbye;
and then silence.
You did not leave a silver bullet.

Some miss the rainbow looking for the pot of gold.
I was looking for sugar-breasted Lolitas,
middle-aged divorcees with their thick plush furs,
& everything, anything, in-between.
I wanted the farmer's lovely little daughter,
lost in the big city, with alfalfa in her speech.
Give me cosmopolitan chic, centerfold statistics,
& a wardrobe by Frederick's.
Let me explore a boundariless culture of lust,
from Mother Russia's prima ballerina to Star-Spangled apple pie.
I was looking for intelligence & for passion.
Innocent & depraved -
I wanted it all.
I wanted to build a nest
in the pubic tangle of so many thighs.
I wanted love from strangers.
I wanted to expose myself in the face of the world.
I could never mime the mask of contentment.
I could never imitate the matrimonial mudra.
I pleaded immunity.
That is the hooker's lie,
the mercenary defence.

My flaming eyes are engorged
with a banquet of beauty.
I realize you do not understand me
& you understand I cannot resist you.
You leave me no place
where your hungry ghosts cannot follow,
so I hide in the indulgent thicket of night,
my eyes oneiric, dark & dense;
my penis sticky from homage.

Call me the French inhaler; call me maker of myths.
The boundaries of reality are arbitrary.
There are absolutely no absolutes.
My sex life is not yet a prisoner of definition
& I am eying you with point-blank curiosity,
like a child, like a born-again virgin.
For two years I have not drunk from your warm fleshy chalice.
For two years I have scourged my ugliness
& now I am withered with thirst.
Teach me to be handsome.
In my solitude everything has grown strange -
even you.
I do not remember how to approach your beauty.
I forget how to enter the current of your touch.
I am floundering in a vortex of isolation,
groping for any available rope.
And you are there.
You were always there.
Help me to reach you now.
Enroll me in the art of our bodies.
Teach me indulgence
& the sweetness of abandon.
I was spawned from wild rumor.
Someday I will evaporate like morning mist,
but, for now, I seek another kind of trance.

We accept everything as if it hadn't happened.
I dreamed I needed somebody.
It was the lure of tentative flesh
& the moan of loneliness;
the muffled murmurs of deserted nights
when I lay naked in strange beds;
the frustration of being in a body.
No matter who my arms enclosed in the fetal ball of sleep,
I always slept alone.
I am destined for greatness or madness.

Sperm contains an average of two calories per serving.
Do not trust me unless you love me.

My wild & sultry little sister,
my restless & undemanding lover,
I need you to revive my lethean joys.
We have a bare knowledge of each other's skin
& once more I yearn
for a private gallery of womanly smells.
Once again I want to explore our concinnity.
I need to insulate my face
in the humid grotto of your thighs.
I need to be reborn within the exquisite velvet sheath
of your very special passion.
I must learn every surface & depth of your pleasure.
Lovely lady, beyond the barricade of clothing,
beyond the convenient facade of deceit,
beyond the cage of possession -
we have a tryst.

- Barry Kapke, 1979
Berkeley, CA