Lust, Caution (A Double Sestina)

A faceless' fuck is a sword
exacerbating the damned needs
Fear of contracting any unknown disease
always haunts me anxious
Would it be better
if we just fuck each other?

There are so many others
using fucking as swords
I, haughty as a royal ass, try to see better
through my insatiable needs
But I always fail to stay clear, always end up with feeling ridiculously anxious
and getting paranoid dying of any disease

I constantly feel the unbearable shame hit with any disease
from each other
Fucking suddenly becomes a game of speeding anxious
I desperately long for a polished sword
to wield clear the entangled masqueraded as needs
I try several times but can't feel any better.

Why do I want to fuck the faceless to feel better?
Can I survive above my disease?
I have so many bitch needs
Toward others
who have the swords to bleed me until I am
oblivious, yet still anxious.

I am always anxious
I assume running away can blind my misery better
Pathetic as it seems, anxiety is a smart sword
to shield me from disease
Because I don't want to fuck the faceless other
I may not generate any needs

Wrong. I am stupid not to respect my needs.
Only feeling anxious
cannot help me see each other
Stop fucking is not any better,
and I can't avoid any disease.
Eventually I am slaughtered by my own mental sword.

How can a fuckup use a sword to demand the needs?
Who will give me the disease to stop the never-ending anxious?
Will we live better by only fucking each other?

Séance

Darling—It's been too long since I remembered you. I am calling you here in this poem, hoping after these silent years you can still hear me, feel me. I have crawled across numerous and various bed sheets. Feeling afloat, restless.

Darling—I spent years getting rid of the way we were. It always came back under different circumstances. To rekindle my longing for family. To disturb my dream with haunting images. To worsen my weakness for strangers' touch. To motivate yet to destroy.

Darling—I wouldn't be an expatriate because of you. I want to, have to and need to. The door was once opened and I dared to look in, only to find out—like porn—I could do it at wherever with whomever by whatever. Liberated yet surprised. But the loved ones around started to blame me for bringing them misery. For better or worse, I feel sorry for the repentance and misfortune I brought on. But I did the right thing. Now I can chew away my insanity and spit it out at you.

Darling—I am happy. I masturbate once a day and feel fresh. I like to ride in a jam-packed subway car and be grilled with body heat. Sometimes a boner is tripod behind through layers of fabrics. I don’t turn around. I don’t squirm. I embrace the awkward by fantasizing a dance on the tip of an umbrella. Singing in the rain…Shamefully satisfied.

Darling—Are you happy? Are you married? Are you a contented father holding your twins with one arm? Are you hosting a barbecue in your well-trimmed backyard? Are you in your maze staring at your boyishly figured wife hustle and bustle? Are you drunk with the old buddies from our past? Are you looking away when they pry about me? Are you grimacing? Are you casually waving away their mockery and saying “Oh I forget who he is…”

Darling—All these silent years.