Groveling

Thing made or adapted, trick, seal: device.
In silhouette, proper background, even a dildo
Can show dignity that masks how dirty
Things can get. Firm, sudden discipline.
Hey dickhead. It’s no use playing doctor
When the patient is yourself, and talk
Is muzzled by Mistress, filthy sock style.

Touches and strokes are due a dildo
Who can stay clean and quiet, dirty
At command or not, under the discipline
Of a Princess, rather than a doctor
Housecalling sneak, sidling in with loose talk,
Showing no awareness of his communication style
Becoming broken and babbling, a disconnected device

Insistently rutting in heart soil where dirty
circus animals defecate and desert. No discipline.
Just ego. Try to find a doctor
Who can work with infantile regression, talk
about childish needs. It’s out of style.
Self reflection can be a false device
Seeming the real thing, like a dildo.

Please don’t not love me. The discipline
Of solitude slips to loneliness; a doctor
visits at night a dying soul whispering talk
From cracked lips, bedridden. Depressing, that style
Of speech where self justifies its device,
the tongue moving senselessly as a dildo,
Spittle caught in air, disgusting and dirty.

A Princess can redeem, but why, doctor?
Why should the wobbly and warbled talk
Of a pathetic soul merit the style
Of Love that is a Princess’ device,
A focus on shared happiness, less dildo
Play than the emotional engagement of dirty
Dancing? Why should she care to discipline?

Now here is the place to talk,
But in silence, body and mind. Style
Yourself what you will, you’re a device,
An object like any other, a dildo
Or doohickey. Truth is way more dirty
Than you thought, slut. Fantasy is discipline
To let the mind go. Right, doctor?

A glance to lock in place. Your style
Of play is a maladaptive emotional device
Used to replace real feeling with dildo
Twerks. And Princess caught you. The dirty
Scoundrel is caught. Now you see discipline
As it really is practiced. Surprised, doctor?
We know how you love to talk.

I love Princess. This poem’s a device
To learn my mind’s like a dildo,
Unappealing of itself, dull, prodding, dirty.
If fitted to the Princess’ higher discipline,
The shaved and plucked soft balled doctor
May have thoughts clean enough for talk
That can support a limp, pathetic style

Of servitude sufficient for use in dildo
Cleaning. A pity diaper training failed. Dirty
Thoughts streaming? Out comes the sock! Disciplined
Yet? Keep your chin up doctor!
Then she can see the lips talk
And gauge the earnestness of the style
Of groveling: your soul’s one remaining device.