Rod Peckman
That tender age, his hands on a book by De Sade.
Life from then on was inhabited by that stirring mise-en-scene:
castle walls studded with restraining rings.
French silk draping sweat lathered leather straps,
chamber pots spilling lipped rims
against bone white Limoges china, full
with overripe rose petals and luscious sex fruit—
oranges and lemons and pomegranates—
above a silver platter of rotted meat
in a shadow of flies.

His place was not to hold the lead,
as he only wanted to be Justine.
A role cast by a dice roll of hazard’s hand,
a book lit by flashlight, a map of a sort of life.
He did all he could to bring about his own
slow crawl across the castle stones.
Knees bruised and gorgeous
burning his very light into the purple rust of life,
the pride of open flesh. Every sin he did
and did not commit, the joy of eating
this guilt. A ragged split sternum
becomes beautiful in this way.
Everything else was routine as his very bones
yearned for extremes.

He dreams of LaCoste, the edge of the cliffs.
Those who dared to fall,  those compelled
onto the tan pebbled earth, so fragrant with herbs,
shaded by gray green leaves of ancient olive trees,
trunks contorted and bearing wrinkled fruit
locals refuse to taste.

This was somehow wrong
in a way that made him at ease.
Those shallow last breaths and the soft touch
of fellow daemons at the base.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

Posted on December 6, 2012, in POETRY, Rod Peckman and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. The last of Rod’s current submissions, a word which might be slightly ambiguous given the content of this poem. I think it’s a great piece.

    Read Rod’s other work by clicking the link and following “Older Posts”:

  2. “Fellow daemons,” Rod speaks of in his last line of discourse of those wishing a libertine free love as revolutionary French kissed intercourse which has lead De Sade and his followers at the base of his debased flesh pots at his yearning and burning lust for deflowered Justine opening up a poetic, art, novelistic and film world of sexual exploration and exploitation. Rod succeeds in this
    succubus of a poem, sleepwalks us through reality and romanticism in a subterranean world,
    capturing the “yearning for the extremes” in a rare rear ending and rendering for poetic and transsexual equality of political justice.

  3. after that i need something stronger than an amnesia pill

  4. @multiplemichael:

    Not sure what you mean…

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