Friday, June 24, 2005

Being sad toward the playful

This entry gives another take (quite different from the last post) on how a girl might go about ensuring a guy could be sad before and during sex with her if he also happens to want that.

This poem rather assumes that girls want me more than perhaps I have much evidence for, and just sort of takes for granted they are very much attracted to me and not much annoyed at my failures and deficiencies. No matter. To the extent the assumption is incorrect, the poem is irrelevant, and of course it doesn’t matter what irrelevant poems say. Poetic license.

Sexy girl at play

Sexy girl
Wants it all

But not yet

I can see
the way she wants to play
Smiles and lightnesses
She’s ...
not quite ready to feel all the way.
When she is,
she’ll bring her hand over her face
and when it leaves below
she’ll show herself
all serious.

When at the surface
She’ll laugh—
make like she’s playing a game.
I’d join, but I’m not so keen on laughing.
I mean, she’s pretty and attractive
lightsome and cool besides.
I could think about her deep inside
About going all the way,
That might keep me serious,
But it is not worth it.
I’ll join.

Pretty girl, why are you so pretty
at play
in a smile and a laugh?
Is it lovely to pretend
I should
(or maybe just could)
on an emotional level
in every clean and lightsome way
fuck you?
Deeply it is for all sexier and better to be each total serious.

Perhaps your merriment at play like training is.
I ought to be able to resist it,
Maybe with practice I can,
and sadly play,
which if I could,
I would be more sad when we are not playing
and you’re total serious
and I make sexual love to you.

I don’t want you to smile at me in play
if you later let me go all the way
you’d let me feel smiles and laughs as I do it
and take every drop of your love
all for myself.
Not that I’d do that even if you let me,
but still,
that perhaps is irrelevant.
Sexually I love you.
(And I don’t mean “love” as a synonym for “want”,
though for sure I also want you sexually, at least to the extent it’s allowed.)

I want to be holy and good to you
in bed.
When I started writing this poem,
it was to be a mortification of sorts.
An exercise in description
of how beautiful it would be
just to play with you
whether it be tennis,
or some other sport.
All true that as well as this.
I could accept your smiles
as beautiful
and maybe unavoidably smile back
but not for long.
I accept that you are sexier,
and more comfortable,
and at greater ease,
if you first have an opportunity to play.
Being serious,
fixating on your deepest needs,
it makes me like holy,
and sad,
but is rather putting the cart before the horse,
and thus might not set you in the greatest ease.
The ease is more important right now,
and I or you,
we might learn something too.

This, I say, is how things started out,
but the thought of you
and me
on the surface
accepting that
it makes me realize
play is about sex,
and between us,
just about completely so.
Greater acceptance of lightness,
could make me so much more sexual,
as girls get less afraid to go,
I’d be less afraid of their rebuke
of my being rather more open of my desires
and visions of naked girls
would glide through my brain
soft and beautifully.

We could be open
about sex
much more than we are
yet it be all
just play.
The surface makes me sexual
when I have the right attitude toward it
a most pleasing seduction of me, play,
and innocent.

The world looks at happiness,
so wrong,
Lightness no gift to a female in bed is.
Nor, indeed, does sadness in me
aught in common
with obsession has.
They would scoff at me,
making a poem like this,
my darkly saying “fuck” here and there,
like I can’t help it,
even in a poem about how play
sometimes preferable to seriousness is.
But lightness in you
only beautiful to me is
in play
I’m inclined to think.
When you are light,
I don’t really want to be
otherwise than dark,
except insofar
I can’t help being so.
My sadness
not a rebuke of your lightness is
Nor is your lightness a defense
against my darkness,
but just a kind of trick
to protect me with experience from the prevailing scoffing lie,
so when we’re both dark
and still
and quiet
sexually loving one another
in coitus,
my increased sadness,
my more minor mode,
when they are the most important
they’ll give us
more erotic pleasure from our having sex
than we otherwise would have.

Blessed are those who mourn
for they shall be comforted

by coitus with girls loving sexual pleasure.

I am going to miss you
I could be angry
and bitter
maybe I won’t be able to help
being that some,
but mainly
I will just be normal
No drama
no star-crossed lovers.

I know somewhat how strong girls tend to be;
A bridge to them that isn’t right,
they’ll burn it down
and not look back
as much as they should.
An unfinished bridge
is not necessarily a shoddy one so far as it goes.
And a stoppage of construction
not always the fault of the builders.
It seems
oftentimes a girl will be special
and something will get in the way
and for years I’ll not give up
but nothing happens
even though
it seems to me
if the girl felt as she did,
why, she would try something,
see what has become of me,
leave a clue somewhere--
a way to finish the bridge
that merely never got finished built.

It doesn’t have to be that way
At worst, if you keep thinking about me
to no direct purpose
you’ll merely gain wisdom.
These stories
of people in love
who go berserk
when they can’t do anything about it
anytime soon
from no fault of their own,
they aren’t about me
or anyone who would think about my opinions.
I occassion no withdrawal symptoms.
And though frustration
and bitterness
can be the lot of the wronged,
with resignation to what can’t be changed
and with honest appreciation
that oppression
need not occasion
or subservience
as long as there is hope
of grasping freedom
through effort
and the intellectual resolve
not to see a bogeyman where
mere injustice lay,
I say,
though difficulty
may change the perfect
or almost perfect
into something less than that,
it mostly need not be more than a delay or a lessening,
and even if it turn out more than that,
one shrugs one’s shoulders like a Frenchman
and goes on,
the best one can,
with sanity almost perfect
The pedestrian
non-disgusting evils,
they may displace the perfection
of love
at its most fine freshness,
but reality one accepts it and goes on.
Shoots a basket,
plays a game of solitaire,
and not less than the extent to which it makes sense,
tries to repair things
so we can patch love up
and have it later
still quite nice,
especially since reflection on a special past or future communications will have made new wisdom.
Sometimes dreams are more real
than what seems like reality
because fear, impatience or bitterness keep us from seeing that
definite real steps
can make dreams come mostly true,
preserving your love mostly like new.
It is OK to settle
for love that’s a little cracked or faded.
Maybe no great forces are aligned against us.
With somewhat greater freedom
and power
we could try again to please each other.
And if not possible
to settle,
or if you decide from the sorry state of the bridge to remain apart forever,
which wouldn’t surprise me, yes,
I’ll gradually come to be more saddened and a little more frustrated at times,
but it will be just a minor blip to my sanity,
and need not be any more than that
to you either.
No reason to seek an excuse why our parting was deserved by either of us.
I’ve never been the least bit angry at you and don’t know why I would be.

I will miss you.

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