Your ministrations Felt like visitations Each layer of meaning you imposed I sloughed off like putrefaction From a festering purulence
You excoriate me For not measuring up To the prick you behold With such childish delight But is it not that when I am deemed an unworthy subject An object is made of me Orifices with penetrable integuments
Dreamscapes reveal to me Unfulfilled longing yet It is not you i seek but an Archetype of you. You are But a facsimile, centre of Unassuageable erotic energies. I refuse to make do with you Denying you both absolution and consummation
Sprung from you, misbegotten Refusing to swallow the seed that made me Eschewing the desire that is forever barren Abdicating your intent to possess me Abrogating my filial consanguinity I milk your being to find traces of guilt What i find is love, a neurotic, hate filled love That is your cover story for masochism.