I Am Tired Of The Usual Agony Poem by RIC BASTASA

tell me another story
the one which you cannot tell inside a motel
where you hold a cigarette
on one hand and a bottle of gin on the other
do not attempt on another
one that begins with

once upon a time
for sure i don't like it and i won't like you beginning
such a kind of trash
to tickle my dead senses

ooops, tell me not a story about pity
and sympathy, the one that you always tell to your
bed partner when the storms come
and in the middle of its harshness
you have nowhere to go nothing to do except
spend your time wisely in another hotel
with a partner
whose name you never bother to ask
or remember
as there is no significance

do not tell me about agonies
i had them all and will have them soon again
or sooner than soonest
they always come to a person like me

do not describe to me the agony of death
or torture or broken hearts
or crashing economies or incoming wars
between this government and the rebels
and soldiers on a coup against their
fellow soldiers at the military academy.

do not tell me that, now that we are here
inside this room where our clothes and faces
do not really matter
except our bodies emerging from a hot shower
where every moment counts
as escape from other agonies
that we have mastered

do not tell me about the agony of our times
high prices of gas and still rising
the possibilities of retrenchment
and closing of some companies
the possibility of this government getting
bankrupt
and the working people on mass strikes
toppling
of a government and the
putting up of another
by another superpower
out there

do not tell me about such kind of agonies
i want
an agony with you, the warmth of your hands
like cinders all over my body
the weight of your body over my body
the kisses of your tongues that will not
make me breath
sucking me
as though i know eternity

your legs blocking mine
like i have no way of finding an exit
from this prison
or labyrinth

this is the agony i want for the moment
give it to me
and i will give it to you
in mutuality

agony for agony

then we shall forget ourselves
our faces fade in the dark and then at least
we sleep
lost in our naked dreams

let the storm rage outside us
while we make more stories
about flesh and moaning glories inside
this motel
without us knowing
even the room number
or the color
of the curtains

or when another morning comes
slowly on the window panes