Dream Kiss, Fantasy Kiss, Fascist Kiss - poem about the tragedy of ugliness
Actually written MARCH 17, 2016 -
PART 1: DREAM KISS
Her thrilling sensual kiss of favor
threw my drawn out boring trajectory to death
into retrograde.
That-there is the energy by which life revives,
occasionally caught in the clarity of dreams,
but lost forever in the clutter of reality.
Although harrowed in hunger for a real her,
the only remotely quenching substitute reality offers
is another peanut-butter and jelly sandwich
that will give me diabetes
and slowly kill me.
Go ahead, sandwich.
Why so slow?
I'm ready right now.
Why can’t I savor your salty sweetness
in the one gentle event of my termination?
The sandwich does not reply.
It just tastes great
and leaves me drifting in my original trajectory,
drawn out and boring,
lost forever in the clutter of reality.
End of part 1.
PART 2: FANTASY KISS
Intending to kiss me,
she has penetrated my most sensitive space
with her most sensitive space,
these spaces around our heads full of sense organs,
eyes, nose, ears,
the super-sensitive skin of lips,
these loci of experience itself,
to show me that she wants me large and close in her experience.
It means she finds pleasure
in placing me in the focus of her attention.
It means she finds pleasure
in placing herself in the focus of my attention.
It means she takes pleasure
in locking our foci of attention into a feedback loop of intense and exclusive intimacy.
Now caught in this intimacy lock with her,
she overturns my very sense of being.
For that sense of being is the sense of being unlovable,
incapable of being such a pleasure to a woman.
Having so thoroughly contradicted my core sense of being,
she has flustered me,
and trapped me terrified in her personal theater
where I’m paralyzed by stage fright.
Our feedback loop opens a channel of non-verbal bi-directional communication.
She wordlessly messages me:
“I take pleasure in being with you.”
I wordlessly message her:
“Do you really mean that?”
Our messages repeat at the speed of desperation for the other to fully comprehend.
As she closes the space between us,
our desperation loop accelerates to a tornado of frantic pleading.
And now, her kiss.
In the loving press of her lips onto mine,
she joins her sensitive portal of communication and self-nurturance
to my sensitive portal of communication and self-nurturance
to sensually communicate that she is nurtured
by nurturing me.
Through her tender connection,
our frantic tornado of pleading jumps to hyper-tornado light-speed.
Hyperventilating,
I whimper short rapid sighs of astonished and disbelieving ecstasy
as she answers with sighs of passion and ravenous mouth-mashing.
While she amorously reaffirms her pleasure in loving me,
warm chills overwhelm my ecstasy panicked neurons thrill upon thrill
upon thrill...
upon thrill.
Evermore thrills thrash chaotically back and forth,
colliding in storms of flash-point over-sensation.
Confused muscles twitch in heightened sensitivity as if helplessly tickled.
Feet glow hot as if trying to dissipate some of the ecstasy.
But my feet can’t keep up.
The tormenting elation escalates ever higher,
shooting funny-car fast toward the unbearable lightness of being the one she wants.
Encouraged by my flattering panic,
she tightens her embrace and keeps pressing more of her love into me through our sealed mouths,
overthrilling me with way more ecstasy than my poor neurons can panic about.
The unbearable ecstasy doubles each second.
Neurons can’t endure the third second.
I pass out.
I awaken,
still in her embrace,
weeping in soul-quivering joy.
End of part 2.
PART 3: FASCIST KISS
I’ve never received a life-reviving, pass-out kiss.
I never will.
Just as well,
I suppose.
For such a kiss
would be a fascist kiss.
Only a woman whose physical appearance met my fascist beauty standards
could thrill me so with her kiss.
The remaining women can’t revive my life or knock me out with ecstasy,
no matter how I try to defy and deconstruct my beauty standards.
And since my beauty standards
are shared by 90% of all pertinent Western males,
I add my rejection of the remaining women
to the oppressive rejection at large.
And make the rejected women feel unlovable,
like me.
This is the tragic reality of what I can and cannot feel from a woman’s kiss,
desperate, personal, innocent feelings
contaminated by the ugly hurtfulness of political incorrectness.
That’s what this is.
This is elitist.
This is fascist.
This is making me feel like an elitist fascist.
This hurts people.
I hurt people.
I feel hurt knowing I hurt people.
I wish I didn’t hurt people.
I wish I didn’t exist.
Time for another peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.
End of poem.
But modern Western culture in particular is a conspiracy not to talk about the world of primary satisfaction, or even about the body at all. Since that is excluded from discussion, we are required to take the world of secondary satisfaction seriously. Blowing the whistle on the game, refusing to take it seriously, declaring that the emperor has no cloths - such behavior has fairly serious penalties in the cerebral societies of Western industrial culture. (Try doing it at work, if you don't believe me.) Devotion to secondary satisfaction is intense precisely because it ultimately provides no satisfaction, and pointing this out generates a terrific amount of rage. If you won't shut up, and insist on discussing this issue in public, you are finally going to wind up in serious trouble, of which loss of employment is probably the mildest form.
(Morris Berman, Coming to Our Senses, P22)
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