At the Chelsea -First Version-

She’s warm.
And I’m so fucking cold, I’m freezing.
I need her.
She says she’s available for fifty.
And after that, I suppose, she says
I can go lay down in her warmth
of a thousand burning fires
Fueled by profession and wooden desire.
They come all the way from Siberia, she says
and they last a long time.

She seems to take forever
to take off all her coats
I count them by names
As they fall off her teasing bodice.
First is Dignity.
Second is Truth.
The third is called Identity.
Last she shed are her receptors
and what is left is Illusion
I can’t quite see her with my eyes
Perhaps it is too dark?
Perhaps I am so green?
Perhaps she’s so voluptuously thin?
Well, I have no time to think
Here she comes, her hands as quick as a cold
And I catch her disease instantly
and there’s her fire
There’re no Siberian wood!
It’s just the two of us burning madly
Our bodies plastered with lust
The source of an electric fire.

Inside her (or is she inside me?)
Running away from, running away to
I cannot say
But I am moving, and fast
With a breadth of lingering presence by my side
Whispering desperations to take it away
And I realize it is her
I say, Where?
She motions to a spiraling delight
and I obey.

We cruise through winding paths;
the bed creaks every time
and the happy mood I was in
starts to decay.
Stop, I say, Where are we going?
She says, We have to keep going
so I can be whole.
Well, I’m out of breath, let’s stop for a while
Besides, I didn’t come here to make you whole
Aren’t you whole already?

The walls of the maze squeeze
and I can see rivers coursing in the bricks
Fiery streams bursting with flames
And Siberian wood appearing
Authentic and hot to the touch
bathing me with heat.
She sheds a final coat and is bare.
Please, she says, there’s no time for stops
Let me hear your pledge.
I know you want to.
I love you.

That coat was Necessity.

This makes my senses catapult back into my head
and I back away
summoning a downpour of icy rain
Intense numbness, far away from her.
What?  Where’s the electric fire?
Where’s your badge?  Qualification?
Are you trying to trap me in this hell?
You have a duty, specifically
to be paid fifty and come to Room 18
Not to seduce me into fidelity.

So I stab her with a cool, sharp icicle
and all her fires go out
the door with my fifty dollars.

Iowa City, 2005


OK, so I’m browsing through my own outdated gallery in deviantART.  I can no longer write like this due to lack of practice.  This poem is like my 16-year-old self speaking in tongues.

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