TROLL SONGS...

I.

I stood there staring in the fetish store —
Supplies, utensils, rubber all around —
Unsure in fact what many things were for,
And all too sure of others. I'll be bound...

I know a lot of this is yours, is mine,
Is wired in at some deep reptile level.
And truth to tell, I find it’s really fine:
I don’t object to sleeping with the devil.

But then, the thought of it defining me—
Though I am largely, even mostly, this—
Is something I’m not sure I really see:
Like most frogs, I would still prefer to kiss.

So there, among the rubber and the leather,
I prayed that we may long remain together.



II.

I wander gay streets aimless, unafraid,
Here in this city where no holds are barred.
I seek no midnight hook-ups, no rough trade—
I feel I’ve fallen, know I’ve fallen hard.

I’m drawn to seek those streets because my heart
Is filled to bursting, weary, sad and sore
For you who taught me love again. How smart
Was it to come so far, to miss you more?

Three weeks have gone by quickly, but I sense
A constant, rising longing through the beers—
Last night, past hope of sleep, I dropped pretense,
Shook sobbing till at last I found the tears.

Another week until we meet again—
God grant I keep my sanity till then.



III.

Kicked out so he could make his phone calls freely,
I wind up in a smoke-drenched bar and drink
Some decaf coffee. Not so awful, really,
Except for those around me and their stink.

I’ve haunted every neighborhood, still hoping
Some thing would leap out, vividly recall
Your presence, but I mostly wind up moping
And wishing you were here, or I could bawl.

It’s simple: all I want is your embraces,
A kiss, a hug, a grope, a touch, a hit.
I want to be wherever your sweet face is;
Right now I find all other places shit.

One week from now I’ll have what I’m now craving:
You in my arms, and what’s more, misbehaving.



IV.

These weeks have run in awful, slow descent
From welcome to complete incomprehension;
Once that first fine enthusiasm went,
I felt the slow but sure increase in tension.

It ended with that lunch: myself, my son,
My oldest friend, allowing no distractions.
He made it clear enough that he, for one,
Accepted, but did not approve, my actions.

He tried to make their black and white go gray,
To see them as the price of liberation—
But chewing your own limbs off is no way
To free yourself—it’s more like mutilation.

Yes, I am free but paid a price so high,
To call it liberation is a lie.



V.

Vacation’s over and I scarcely care,
So eager am I to be home at last,
The separation has been hard to bear,
And I look forward to its being past.

How soon I came to utterly depend
On you who gave me that first glimmering hope:
A revelation, lover, idol, friend...
My Thirty Years’ War ends in sex and dope.

So one more dog responds to vomit's call,
Though not, of course, without the odd remark—
Who dreamed that I would come to such a fall,
Or fall so hard, my bite all gone to bark?

Oh, I will soon climb up those stairs again
And take your weight and measure, man of men.
C