Bob Flanagan

Slave Sonnet #10

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The name stamped onto the lock says, "Master."
But the keys are yours, Mistress. My body,
wrapped in this neat little package, is yours.
Do I dare call myself a present?
I'm the one who's on the receiving end.
You took me on, taking in my stiff prick
and swelling my head with your compliments,
your complaints, even out and out neglect.
Nothing--when it comes from you--is a gift;
wrapped in your aura of authority
even shit tastes sweet, and the void you leave
leaves me full.

It's a Christmas whenever you put your foot down,
and the stars I'm seeing must be heaven.

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