As we know, we occupy a highly sexualized culture where the very idea of privacy and decent spaces has lost its meaning. So here is my summation of that feeling, informed by a fictional realization in this poetic form but presided by attitudes I encounter around me .
Out in the open,
sticky beads of sweat and dried semen,
the particularity of an encounter and spooky peekaboos of sexual frustrations.
As winter calls omit midnight oil lamps,
the last autumnal groans leave logs of seedy ‘first times’
and ‘lust at first sight’ alterations make preferred cut-offs for tonight’s fellowship.
The wooden bed is rusted,
creaking a kettle like squeal for all dead sensual pairs,
and the biting cold leads to hypothermic climaxes,
sheets of all bottled up desires imprisoned in cheap whiskey cans and cigarette butts.
‘I have an unquenchable desire’, they moan and beetles creep up their backs,
leaving a foul remnant on exposed spinal columns,
as one takes the night’s last breezy turn after turn.
Hence the ‘morning after’ becomes one transparent peep-hole,
Voyeurism’s broth and a lop sided mirror where battering rams of desire clash with dark casts on either sides.
This poem simultaneously appears on my Wattpad poetry collection WORDS ON THE HORIZON.