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Up On The Massage Table

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Heat up the oil
Your hands are cold and dispassionate
Let the oil's warmth seep up your unconscious 
Making you more malleable to touch
Figures created out of mud and ludicracy
Break not the chain of bondage of eternal servitude of lust
I didn't buy you
I can't, because you can't buy humans anymore 
I just bought your services for the night
A few hours of relaxation 
I couldn't buy you but I wish I could
Buy your smile and tear it up and throw it away
at the roadside dump and see your face behind.
Your face is beautiful
And you are poor 
And that is the reason
Why you are a whore
Oops, I meant masseur
I enjoy your face even when you look vacantly
at the pasty paint scraping off the wall while you
delicately push away my towel
I don't know why I use it
May be I like to play hooky
Your vacant eyes irritate me, but I
ignore them at the urging of your efficient fingers
Why should one body part take precedence over the other?
I like your torso as much as your arms
Your big strong beefy arms, no doubt
strengthened from kneading up millions of clients 
Your hands can even make corpses happy, like Osiris.
You try chatting up
I tell you, it's not your strong suit
You tell me stories from home
Of sunlit village roads and games in the pond
with a younger cousin way back when
you were still a virgin and how you loved him, and
how much you like bikes and torn jackets are all the rage and
potatoes are getting expensive and all political leaders are liars...
I tense up at your incessant chattering and you fall silent feeling it under your thumb
Or may be you start dreaming of riding bikes
through your bright village dirt roads racing your politician
cousin who looks like a potato
Or something 
I don't care
I never wanted to know what you think
Of the world or me
That's why I never felt so free
getting naked in front of anybody else... May be my mom
I mean I bought you, sorry, your services
after thorough perusal just like I choose the flavour
of my ice cream at the super market
I am finicky like that
Turn over
Your tone is always stoic when it comes to the fun part
You could have commanded armies with that calm dialect
Anticipation quickens my pulse
And hardens my expectation
Now you start playing hooky
Going in and out 
Under the towel
Almost but not quite there
You know how I like it
But your face betrays no affection
Your eyes grow more vacant with every lunge
Like a game of chess 
We play
With my body as a wager
And your affections 
You win every time
Feral sounds
Obscene sounds
Belching, farting 
Squelching, splashing
You are all that
And more thrashing
Till the snakes 
Give up and hide
And you act as if 
You loved the fight
But you don't, I can see it in your eyes
May be I should get a blind masseur
Next time
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I bought you. I smile at that because that's what customer's think. Not your service, but YOU.  For an hour or a night.  Since I own you for that time I can do what i wish.. punish, beat, kiss ...  And the purchased one? Ha, no wonder we have vacant eyes, it's as close to death as we can get and remain alive. Vacant eyes - so you can't see our pain and hatred. 


Too too real.. too many memories.  Very well written.  xoxo

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This is not new for an Indian culture. No man bound to do what he can share with another, but feel guilty doing so. But your poem my friend, shines through all of that. The anticipation, pure lust, pleasures, disappointments, and guilt filled eyes were pure gold in your poem. Well done . :thumbup:

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Pain, leavened with pleasure, makes this a poem whole meal. I devoured it. What most strikes me is the vacancy, the emptiness behind the eyes... for your words capture this clearly, even as the speaker could not buy anything more than time.

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