From the dusty-ass past.

Oh shit.

Yeah, OK, so I’m not a fucking poet. I leave that shit to the professionals and those overcome by hubris.

But a looooooooong time ago, back when I was a lil-behbeh pervert, I was involved in an online relationship.

Yeah, OK. Pick your jaw up off of the fucking floor.  It is all true.

I met this…person…on ALT.  This was over 10 years ago. Back when merely possessing a vagina could reap you a premium membership on the site. I was diligent about meeting the Master of my Dreams back then! I went on a few dates, and wound up “involved” with a “dominant” who “collared” me online and yeah there are quotations there for a reason. After several months of the online thing, we were supposed to have met. He wasn’t all that far away, in Northern California. A distance I found entirely reasonable.  But weeks stretched into months and then eventually I met some real perverts and…well…I went to this Truth Or Dare Party and the rest is living history.

But I took a stab, once, at my then “masters” (gag) “command” and wrote a poem. 

I got a wild hair up my ass just now and dug around trying to find it, and find it I did.

Resistance

 

My thoughts, unfurling, like the serpent’s tongue
Darting to taste the air, the pathway split.
Choose what I will, too soon I am undone
Whether I dare rebel or dare submit.


 

“Resist you must!” The clarion cry within
“Revel in strength, fully express your power
To give yourself so freely tastes of sin
How piteous is it to kneel and cower?”


 

Then, gentle as a breeze on summer’s night
Upon the heels of strident battle cry
Comes comfort’s quiet voice to ease my plight
And whispers truths that I cannot deny


 

Desire to please, to kneel, to serve, obey
Consumes my heart so surreptitiously
Turbulent night reveals the clear-eyed day
And peace I find in loving slavery.
                 
 
And even as I sigh in sweet release
My heart is torn, and on that blood you feast.

 

I am bemused by my naivete…and I remember how proud I was of it, and how deeply submissive I felt to this man, some guy I’d never even met…some dude who’d managed to take advantage of a person just feeling their way into a new life

I wonder.

I wonder at how much changes, and how much stays the same.

I’m embarrassed because I really hate that purple prosy over-the-top imagery that pervades kink poetry. I wonder how I could have imagined and filled in so much without the benefit of reciprocity.

I don’t even know why this came to mind, or why I’m posting it.

Must be my attention-starved inner masochist? Perhaps. Maybe the thought of people rolling their eyes and snickering and silly poetry satisfies some desire for debasement.

But fuck.

It IS a sonnet in iambic pentameter, beotches!!

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2 Comments

  1. Andrew on January 9, 2009 at 11:03 PM

    No, sorry, fail. A sonnet has 14 lines, not 18. Lose the 4th verse and make lines 1 and 3 rhyme and it will be a sonnet.



    • mollena on January 10, 2009 at 2:21 AM

      Well.

      Shit :-(