Beauty

This is the Booty Call in the Harem

This poem gives a birds-eye-view of life inside a slavery-based harem, an institution found, unfortunately, internationally. As a writer, I give the primary perspective both to a young woman, and as well as to the harem owner to provide a fair composite perspective of a union of the two, the woman and the harem owner). I hope that the reader’s intellectual curiosity is satisfied and that my poem will help us understand the opportunity of putting an end to the slavery and degradation-for the slaves, and the harem owner, too.

It is always a prolonged watch

in captivity, the veiled women

breathing furtively in the deep of the night

of unquenched solace misunderstood

unappreciated and unnoticed

love the authenticity undeniable

daily grievances remain unspoken

dreams are simply lost on the side of the road

with the owner of the satisfaction

in the lonely desolate arabian nights

the rich man is walking with the night

in soft sole shoes slipper

with arrythmic snap

to remind those on the bare soil under

its undeniable relentless power

with only scattered carpet

to muffle the soft sound of his possession steps

while even quiet males

not quite free men in the light of the day

breathe inside the curtain walls

the red-roped cordoned bathrooms

in which they sometimes live

as real women, not the men

the men who are able to leave the harem walls

for travel in missions to the market in the light of the sun

causing envy in the harem women

who can not leave

it’s a dollar bill reality inside the paradigm

emotional rent ripped with discontent

you can’t discount the dis-cunt available

in hovering fragile tents unflapped

now aflame with burning mercy

the desire and the rash of accusations

inside previously unfathomable hearts

if one neglects the humanity

not the chance to speak

in prearranged groupings of sex-laden

the entities of different breasts counted the buttocks

elongated, cream-coloured beds

their only beds for rest

innocent untouched hands

some colourful henna tattoos

other people with draping beads multi-colored

as a young girl, the promises of beauty inside fidelity

a small paperweight with a snowy scene

although carefully altered deceits impact

on hastily abandoned traditional

marriage vows even abandoned traditions

as the pure white pure wedding dresses

they hoped to wear

they hoped to offer him a hymn

con graca with grace y espiritu

in the arid stifling room with no choices at all

isolated hands sometimes go free

of slavery, degradation and frozen fingers

Protected by tents decorated with restricted trays of food

walks the well-clothed stranger wearing slippers

all the world knows of him, but he never speaks

passing boldly always openly as the owner

in the black velvet shadows of the harem

right to the booty of the dove

an abuser’s emotional openings

it was the deep sea diver returned

from a rich man of power and despair

countless rivers of femininity

although he is often hated he does not care

and resumes the gap choice for the night

on that powerful tender night she was just like

a flower opening

while reducing the burden of his youth

he aggressively takes out his discount coupon

his group rate option in barren in the hotel rooms

as the harem owner

for another thrill

another lay

on yet another mercenary day

He slowly slides selectively

down the dark hall of the harem vagina

the port of cher slippers, shoes not hard

he ponders his choices with an all-seeing

third eye his own hard eyes averted

while the shroud of the watch women

with dark Kohl-outlined vision

underneath the silk brocaded overlay

a unaccustomed pair of bright blues

looks innocently by

it was the nazi glue they spoke of

while they watched in silence afraid

and waited

Like a familiar lighthouse lost

a turning point in the police state of the siren

warning and promising her nothing

screaming red red roses small red vaginas

red red dreams overtake her tumultuous

a cascading lotus thoughts

her young innocent mouth opens with terror

as he tells her to close the clitoral hood

she embraces the deity that he is

in the most abject submission

inside the elegant locked rooms

harem’s orifices

it was the young girl who has been raped

not the slave

Dry iced hospital the harem is sterile

Dying people lie like mummies barren within

Cold and wet wrapped in sheets of

Stale incest incense dominates

Forming ethereal, dark clouds

Obscure pleasures abound

Without a touch of awareness

For the harem owner it is like sleeping

With a half-dead woman

Who can’t raise the head or

Her Subjugated arm

She weeps without the mercy

of childhood’s spontaneous tears

As she allows him to enter her, while

Her depression seeks up through

Her own skin and pores

The contamination of any relief

he could meet

Drowning in the living dry death

Within a death of the uterus and

proximity of the skulls

The vacancy of the vagina, which

He insisted as a condition

To his enslavement sustainable

The opium room walk, the owner

Another detour hallucinogens

The road as he gropes in the darkness for the

Thin tightly wrapped cloth-covered cord

A houkah

a royal pipe containing relief for

his desperate need

and even with a deep breath

He is drowning in the smoke of memories

A golden youth he lost

by means of the acquisition

by subugation

of bondage and spiritual slavery

a constant domination he once sought

has become the sense of no choices to make

there are no singing crickets in the bushes

the bushes that are now a demanding confinement

once living now in the form of an illusory fortress

he protects his own prison

with his life

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