And That's Why They Call it the Blues...

by Neil Chatterton

I am defined
By rewards.
A desire
To play in another’s sandbox
Any consequences be damned
Never glancing behind
To see if that riot
Was mine.
My ruination
My comedy of errors
Came with a purpose
As surely as morning does.
Yet I helped tighten the straps
Enjoyed the feeling of steel
Salivated as my mouth was filled
And this is my reward.
A darkened room
With an occasional shadow
As a friend.
His altruism stopped
When the door closed
And the pain began.
I pondered
Our love
As my moral integrity
Slipped another notch
Hastening memories
Reliving the contradictions
Evident to all
But one.
Screamed it forever
Until my throat
But how
As all I could taste
Was rubber.
Descending like a veil
Its progression
By my muted
Covered once again
As I shivered
And reviled my innocence lost.
Such idolization
Better suited
A juvenile
His feigned and convoluted sincerity
Made me an onlooker
As he,
Akin to a looter,
My soul.
Eyes wide open
His expression
I turn my head
Too Late
As his tongue
Licks across
Cracked lips.
My stomach rebels
That bilious feeling
Unwanted and unwelcome
I involuntarily dry-heave.
His power-lust
My air
My resistance
As the inversion machine
Flips me.
His boots
Immaculately polished
The smell of soft leather
Beckons my hunger
As my tongue
A have a mere taste
Of him.
My devolution
Almost complete
As he pushes his boot

©Neil Chatterton 2012

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