There is an existential intersection between Marxist (or at least Engel's and Trotsky's) aspiration and post-colonial entitlement which does not countermand congruent routes of cognizant and sentient dimensions of an ethereal materialism but rather function as the zygote of their intrinsic convergence.
The tragedy is that I know what this means.
And it's even true at three a.m.
after a good bottle of chianti
swilled with pork roast and baked apples
and I'm wedged between Kate's legs
adjusting the rhythm of the me
that I'm putting inside her
and the me I think I'll take away.
Dinner-talk and a wafer of after-dinner acrimony
are crumbled on new black percale, and though
I feel their grit beneath her arms and ass,
I speak only of the silk woven by her cunt's
reaching for my breast and mouth and hand.
And I wish,
I wish,
And I wish,
I wish she would open her eyes
As I peel open her mouth with my thumb
and tug on her tongue with my lips,
her tongue that tells me even less than the vague
surrender in her sigh.
There are books here.
Her books.
Their shadows lasso the walls
around us in street and candle light.
Propping up other things of insufficient leg.
Priceless first editions of a best-seller
now prostheses that slyly re-member
the plastic limbs of the legless man
who sold her this place and
last made love in this room.
But her eyes stay closed because
her there is there
and mine isn't,
and since neither of us
is here,
we've allowed room for the sun
to set upon the shaky dawn.
And I put my ear into the mattress
to hear the sounds of every sun's setting and dawning
because I wish to hear as well as see
their pink and amber fingers drip in
purple over the ceiling shadows
and inhale the vapor and evaporation of
those hands I cannot reach.
And I wish, I wish
And I wish
I wish these clamoring and hungry whispers
could use my voice to speak.
Yet somehow this particular and symphonic impotence
Draws Kate's heel into my back.
It's an adagio movement and bucks its own harmonics.
So, when she lathers my breasts with incessant sterling hair
and tightens her thighs on my waist, I suckle her release
in my throat and swallow.
And swallow.
And swallow her spill of
"I love yous."
Before the next-day's light
bleaches out their visit.
And of all the things she might have done,
Instead
she opens her eyes,
And she smiles.
Neither latter nor present-day intermittent sentiment affords sufficient therapy to eradicate indoctrinated predispositions that prohibit concurrently extended, concordant or bonafide exchange between individuals with realities predicated on disparate notions of self-purpose and identity determined by cultural origins.
The tragedy is that I know what this means.
