It’s 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 to the harem owner to provide a fair composite perspective (a union of the two, the woman and the harem owner). I hope the reader’s intellectual curiosity is satisfied and that my poem will help us all understand the timeliness of ending such slavery and degradation – for the slaves, and the harem owner, too.
It is always a prolonged watch
by captive veiled women
breathing furtively in the deep deep night
of unquenched solace misunderstood
unappreciated unnoticed
love’s authenticity unchallenged
daily grievances remain unspoken
dreams are simply lost by the wayside
with the owner’s satisfaction
in the lonely desolate Arabian night
the wealthy man walks with the night
in soft-soled slipper shoes
with an occasional arrythmic snap
to remind those on the bare floors beneath
of his unquestioned unrelenting power
with only scattered prayer rugs
to muffle the soft sound of his possessing steps
while even quiet males
not quite free men in the daylight
breathe inside the curtained walls
the red-roped cordoned bathrooms
in which they sometimes live
as real women not men
men who are able to leave the harem walls
for errand missions to the market in the sunlight
causing envy in the harem women
who cannot leave
it’s a dollar bill reality inside the paradigm
of emotional rent ripped with discontent
you can’t discount the dis-cunt available
in hovering fragile tents unflapped
now aflame with burning mercy
desire and erupting accusations
inside previously unfathomed hearts
of unaddressed humanity
denied the chance to speak
in prearranged groupings of sex-laden
entities of varying bosoms counted buttocks
stretched out on cream-colored cots
their only beds for rest
innocent untouched hands
some with stained henna tattoos
others with draping multicolored beads
girlish promises of beauty inside fidelity
like a tiny paperweight with a snowy scene
although carefully altered deceits impact
on hastily abandoned traditional
marriage vows even abandoned traditions
like the white pure pura 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
from slavery’s degradation and frozen fingers
Shielded by decorated tents with restricted trays of food
walks the well-clothed stranger wearing slippers
everyone knows him but he never speaks
passing boldly always openly as the owner
in the black velvet shadows of the harem
straight for the booty he dove
an emotional abuser through sexual openings
he was the deep sea diver returned
from a rich man’s foraging and despair
to endless flowing rivers of womanhood
although he is often hated he does not care
and reconsiders his aloof choice for the night
on that powerful tender night she was just like
a flower opening
while shrinking from the burden of her youth
he aggressively takes out his discount coupon
his group rate option in barren hotel rooms
as the harem owner
for another thrill
another lay
on yet another mercenary day
As he slowly slides selectively
down the dark hall of the harem vagina
wearing expensive slippers not hard shoes
he ponders his choices with an all-seeing
third eye his own hard eyes averted
while the shrouded women watch
with dark Kohl-outlined vision
underneath the silk brocaded overlay
an unaccustomed pair of bright blues
peeking innocently through
it was the nazi glue they spoke of
as they watched in fearful silence
and waited
Like a familiar lighthouse lost
a revolving police state siren
warning and promising her nothing
screaming red red roses small red vaginas
red red dreams overtake her tumultuous
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 abject submission
inside the elegant locked rooms
of the harem’s orifices
it was the girl who was raped
not the slave
Like a dry iced hospital the harem is sterile
Dying people lie like mummies barren within
Cold wet wrapped sheets
Stale incest incense dominates
Forming ethereal dark clouds
Obscure pleasures abound
With no tactile awareness
For the harem owner it is like sleeping
With a half-dead woman
Who cannot lift her head or
Her Subjugated arm
She weeps without the mercy
of childhood’s spontaneous tears
As she lets him enter her while
Her depression seeks up through
His own skin and pores
Contaminating any relief
he could encounter
Drowning in the living dry death
Within a dead womb and
nearing nearby skulls
The vacant vagina on which
He insisted as a condition
To her enduring enslavement
The opium room walk takes the owner
Down another circuitous hallucinogenic
Road as he gropes in the darkness for the
Thin tightly wrapped cloth-covered cord
Of a houkah
a royal pipe containing relief for
his now desperate need
and with even a deeper breath
He suffocates within the smoky memories
Of a golden youth he lost
through acquisition
through subugation
servitude and spiritual bondage
a constant domination he once sought
has become the sense of no choices to make
there are no singing crickets in the bushes
bushes that are now a demanding confinement
once living now shaped into an illusive fortress
he protects his own prison
with his life
