Consensual Misery
She spoke with a tone I’d rather not hear,
Saying my pleasure is my pain,
And my pain is her pleasure –
(And to think, I didn’t even ask this.
But the world did.) There must have been
Some talks going on behind my back,
Nefarious, I would say, those chit-chats
Cuckolding me in the world of the sign.
I’m not sure what the response
Should have been. In a way, my hands
Were full, and my lips were tied —
It was bondage, in a way, but
Not sexy. And it’s only at this moment
That I could think it wouldn’t be.
And only at this moment when I think
‘No’ might be the Dionysian core.
But let’s not think – at least, deeply
For in this veritable quagmire,
Through which we can only tiptoe,
We pretend that we’re marching.
And in this veritable worldly guise
We speak as if we have spoken before
With our teeth biting themselves; we have
shredded poetry … so recite your pick.
I listened in a way she’d rather not.
We have memorized our lines,
Measure for meter, but I knew
This was no tragedy, but bad acting.