ROOM 304, THE VISTA MOTEL, BAKERSFIELD, CA

I.  VISITOR

He fled from the terrible
radiant dullness of day,
left us trapped
in the crystal dark,
constrained by Gordian knots
of still human sensibility,
harassed by the cacophony
of our night's exertion,
senses overwhelmed by
scent of sweat and dry seed,
touch of gentle stroke and clout,
sound of pleasure and pain,
the taste of  copper to bind it all,
indigo fluid to draw him back
to our bed, to his new nest.
As I wake to the orange of day's
terrible furor, the hard memory
of the night's indulgences
waste over me, but you--
you do nothing but lie
still distended
in your liquid bed.
I would cry for your lost spirit,
but I have no tears, only callous
yearnings for him,
his caress, his bite
and I
no
longer
know
what
I
was
 

II.  WAIT

Endless days of sun,
inflamed, blistering
leaving me with naught
but yearnings
and your lovely
rotting cadaver.
Endless nights,
frigid, but not refreshing,
hunger for him mounting,
making me nauseous.
Caught between domains,
still feeling human cravings,
nothing remaining
for my weakened body
but decay and clot,
regurgitated and reconsumed,
nothing remaining
for my little mind
but myself
or the unthinkable
(thought-
perhaps done)
nothing remaining
for my soul
but his mastery,
too
long
in
coming
or
hell
 

III.  RETURN

Rejected,
abandoned,
cast aside like a dead rat,
my Master,
my beautiful Master,
has set me adrift
in a sea of torment
and anguish,
deigning me unworthy
to worship
his terrible countenance,
unworthy to touch his cloak,
to offer him sustenance,
to guard his tomb
before he rises again,
to remain alive
or even be undead
in his profane name;
but he took you,
you who thrice rejected him,
who turned from him
in loathing and wrath,
you who are nothing
but a sac of indigo purulence.

Why?

Why
leave me,
his most loyal disciple
for you, vile puta
(but once when the world
was new and the sun
was not torpid,
mine,
my beloved,
or was that you
and not another harlot).

He will pay, some
silver day when his guardians
are neglectful.
I will wreak my  vengeance,
or I would if my head
was not over here
and
my
legs
over
there
 

About the Author:
 

Gary Blankenship is a retired manager whose avocation is writing poetry.

His work has appeared on Writer's Hood, Electric Wine and others.  He
spends too much time in workshops, but considers them his classroom.  He is acting as an editor for WDS Writer's Block (sans pay) and
managing editor for the InterBoard Poetry Competition.  Visit his
home page .  A chapbook will be out this year.