Running Tree

The n'th Shot of Caffiene
2003-10-03 17:59:44 (UTC)

Business with Men

(a poem)

Business is happening.
Within man-made structures holding the working man himself,
Business is happening.

Look at the men in their suits:
All done up, shirt under jacket, buttons in line,
Well-shaven, hair done,
And on the occasion, bearing mysterious smiles and looks
that only tempt me into warming thoughts.

Oh how I'd love to tear one apart;
Peel off, piece by piece, the heavy tailored clothes,
And break each and every seam. Tastefully.

The more that is hidden; the more I'd be able to reveal.
Pale, unsunned skin, perhaps,
Or sinewy calves and blocky arms, kept in check by the
office desk chair;
Rough pen-calloused hands curling those fingers hinting at
me the strength of that business shaking grip.
What will keep me from pulling up the collar of one,
leashing him to a neck-hugging tie, taking him close...and
instead becoming the one to beg to his eyes?

In his eyes -- imprisoned and begging -- crying out for
something, anything.
But then his heavy smell would drown me, torturing me to my
knees, to a tear-stained face and a quivering voice.
You can keep your shirt done up, I'd say, pushing him away
too gentle on the chest to show any anger.
You can unmess your hair, keep it gelled, and leave your
cuffs and collar in place.
Then as I watch him brush the dirt off himself, unable to
turn on my sole, I'd fall to him again, head concussing on
his arm, fingers flying past each other taking hold of the
business suit fabric of the only universe I'd want.

There, ear upon his tensed torso and knowing I'd hear no
hunger from him, I'd gouge my face with his lowest shirt
button and yell too weakly...I want you.

Oh that cool belt buckle on my face -- and that cruel
leather strap about his waist, holding up every deceitful
value against my humanity.
Yet...not bound tight enough to escape my fingers, pressing
down against his warmed back, crawling ever so stubbornly,
into the dark, deep, panting trail towards...what? And
where?

My wasted palms stuck strangled upon the holding belt.

But where else would I go?

Up his cord of life only to be cut back by heavy blades?
Down his back pocket, past the wallet -- also leather --
past the coin, and stop still too far from any filling
gluttony?
Up his Achilles and not even have him to his knees?
Down his shoes and find myself trapped yet again by
relentless leather?

I'd pull at the lace if I would
-- then he'd slap me away
-- and I'd grab that dismissing hand
-- he'd recoil in fear
-- and I'd laugh...

Because I know that I have already had him, without even
removing his cover.

He should've known that I meant business.

-RunningTree
4:00am Sunday 4th October 2003




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