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It's the Booty Call in the Harem

Poetry By: Patricia McGurk Martin
Other



"It's the Booty Call in the Harems" 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, as well as 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 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. While I have included this poem in the category of Domestic Abuse to make the conceptual relationship more apparent from the slave owner's perspective, for the victim the relationship is nothing but terror, a hostage situation, and slavery.


Submitted:Jun 23, 2014    Reads: 207    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


It's the Booty Call in the Harem

© 2009 Patricia McGurk Martin

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





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