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[after John Milton's poem, "Samson Agonistes"]

"And it came to pass, when their hearts were merry, that they said, Call for Samson, that he may make us sport."
---Judges 16:25

Come closer, Gentle Dove.  Despite the groan
and scrape of this great millstone that I turn,
I hear, somehow, the soft tread of bare feet,
and know that it is you, come once again
(as is your sweetness) to talk here with me.
The whispers of this wicked nation say
tomorrow is your formal collaring
when, naked, you come into Dagon's shrine,
and someone takes your training collar off
(you have been taught---who once was free---to be
your master's utterly submissive slave).
Then giving irrevocable consent,
you kneel down at your grinning master's feet,
in presence of the gathered witnesses
(those who are masters, those who are enslaved,
and those who seek to be one of the two).
Then they will have the silver collar brought.
Your master will enclose it on your neck,
and lock it, and upon it is his name,
engraved, the mark of his propriety.
And his close friend will have the honor of
holding your long, soft tresses slightly back
so that his hands are free to finish.  Then,
shackles will be affixed upon your wrists
and ankles, and you will be tautly bound
between two pillars---there to prove your love
(and absolute submission ever more)
by taking (on your breasts, backside, and legs,
or even on your private place) the sting
of floggers that your master wields quite well.
And when this slow ordeal has weakned you;
has wrested tears out of your eyes, and screams
out of your throat---such as you never thought
would come---the brand will have become white-hot:
your master's mark of property aglow.
And he, himself, hard-panting with the lust
of dominance, will thrust it on the flesh
of your already crimson buttocks.  Then,
whether you fall unconscious from the pain,
or still writhe consciously in agony,
his dearest friend will render medical
care to the burn . . . lest after suffering
so much anticipation of this day,
and so much effort to perform the rite,
your master should be robbed of you, the prize,
by some infection.  Then, thus ministered
to, and unchained, you will stumble and fall
into your master's satisfied embrace,
to be there comforted and there assured
of his enduring love.  Later, alone,
you will take, in each orifice, the spurt
of his too eager seed.  Lastly, or so
they think, the two of you will soundly sleep,
cuddling each other, and so happy as
master and slave; and on your face a smile.
So I am told and, here, have not inquired
into this further, but to know one fact:
that all I have described to you, all this
that you already know from those who train
you, must be done in Dagon's House, to be
recorded, and made valid, by the law
that rules these Philistines.  Outside that dark
and shadowed dungeon, it is not performed
and cannot be imposed on anyone.
The guards here say that you are beautiful;
and that your beauty is the finest kind---
fulsome, curvaceous, every day barefoot,
and absolutely modest; so unlike
the slender girls whose very bones protrude,
who model gowns in Gaza's marketplace.
You are enslaved right now by free consent
of yours, and not by Philistine decree
(as I am).  One night separates you from
the final, full abyss of slavery
that you cannot escape upon the pain
of death (by prolonged torture, so that your
master, bereft of you, will be avenged).
Such is the destiny that you embrace
if by the last act of your own free will,
you step across the threshold of that shrine
and there relinquish to your master all
your will, your preference, your identity.
And never will he give these back to you.
To live, through him, and no more through yourself;
you will be just the mere reflection of
his rather craven personality;
to be the mat on which he wipes his feet;
to wait upon his table; and to be,
night after night, the object of his rapes---
in sum, to be the validation of
his weak and abject masculinity
that needs to make a victim of someone
(and right now, Sweet Dove, that someone is you)
that he might suck, out of the rush of power,
the self-esteem that he cannot acquire
through normal means, like men of courtesy.
Although he is called master; and you, slave,
he feasts upon you like a parasite.
He seeks to have possession of your soul
by using or abusing your own flesh,
because he has no soul left of his own,
because he squandered it on cowardice,
a cowardice that sets him well apart
(although covertly).  To that cowardice,
you will be daily, nightly, sacrificed,
a little at a time, until he takes
the last of you---be that your life, or soul.
Such is your master, who claims dominance,
covertly, cravenly, dependent on
you for his very life's validity.
And to assuage the hard resentment of
this secret torment, that engorges him,
he must inflict, on you, assortments of
torment and pain---that from your suffering
and your submission, his own self-esteem
will be raised up.  And it will fall again,
and you will suffer more to raise it up,
to raise it up repeatedly again;
to suffer for the manhood that he lacks
until your very self has been consumed.
And this they do not want you to be told.
I know, Pure Dove, that something in this world
has hurt you, and has made you vulnerable.
And so they name to you the benefits
of this so-called lifestyle.  They tell you that
your master will esteem you very high,
will treasure you and cherish you beyond
what other men, the ordinary men,
can do.  They tell you that, in suffering,
you will be purified by him, and what
is dross in you will be refined until
you are the pure reflection of his will;
not of yourself, but of your master's will.
And they will tell you:  serving his least need,
his queerest whim, will help you come to great
and lasting satisfaction.  And you may
believe this for a little while, or for
whatever the duration of your life.
They will say to you that the welts you bear
upon your breasts, the bruises on your thighs,
the lashmarks on your buttocks, and that brand---
are marks of honor and proof of the gift
you give your master (how much you must give!,
while he receives, receives, and still receives).
Oh, but they say, that is exchange of power,
and evidence, submissively, of love.
But if he loves you so much and esteems
you highly, and so greatly cherishes
you, why must he declare you property?
Why must you bear his collar and his brand
like any of the cattle in his fields?
Is he afraid that, not bound by the signs
of ownership and his propriety,
you might abandon him?  Why is his love
alone---without the crutch of collar, brand---
not capable of holding you to him?
Why must you call him master, not his name?
Why must you cast your eyes down at his words,
or be put on display naked or used
for the amusement of like-minded friends
of his?  Why must the means of his caress
be found in paddles, whips, clamps, and the points
of sharpened objects?  Why must you display
proof of your love in your endurance of
the pains that he inflicts upon your flesh,
confirmed by marks that linger afterward?
And why, if this lifestyle is choicest gift,
must your enslavement be accomplished in
the dungeons of the house of his false god?
Why does your master fear the neighbors and
acquaintances who might not understand?
(He does you know; as do all those like him.)
Why does he fear the average Philistines'
public disgust might lead to some bloodshed?
Why do you sometimes draw your tunic up
to hide that training collar from the stares
of those who knew you once, before you stepped
into the cesspool of your master's lust?
Yes, I am blind in Gaza, but I see
more than you do---only because my life
has longer years, and greater errors, than yours.
What you see here, a slave bound to a stone
that must be turned, and turned without delay;
blinded to sight that I might not escape---
this is a cruder version, Sweetness, of
that which you will become tomorrow, but
with one distinction:  you must give consent,
your last free act, a choice I did not have.
   Consider one more thought:  if you are so
desrirable to this man, who you name
your master, and who makes you property
(this man who needs to collar you and burn
his mark upon your flesh; who needs to know
how much and what variety of pain
he can inflict upon you and compel
you to endure without mercy's surcease;
who needs to brand you and to mutilate
your flesh that way, that he might be assured
of your submission), if to him you are
desirable, how much more so to one
who would esteem you only for your sake,
and not for what you can endure for him;
who would love you for the pure bliss of love
without the need to sacrifice you to
some wretched need and measureless conceit
(like him whom you have called your master now).
Consider why your master must display
you naked, collared, branded, in the sight
of devious friends, so that he might enjoy
their compliments as proof of his manhood,
proof of his worthiness to be a man.
For that is ultimately what you are---
proof of his manhood, proof that he cannot
obtain within, so he must take it from
enslaved submission . . . yours . . . in just a day.
Consider, too, his shown-off dominance,
the collar and the brand, the slavery
of absolute submission, and the gifts
that (so they tell you) each of you bestows
upon the other---all that is designed
to his best interest, not to yours at all.
The so-called honor that you will enjoy,
the thrill of being his own, his very own
(collared and branded like an animal,
marked like a piece of chattel property);
the act of kneeling down to be raised up;
the liberation from your very self
to be, solely, reflective of his will
(as if you were inferior to him
when you were free and not bound to his whim)---
all these that have persuaded you are false
and hollow promises, designed to bring
you to submission for his benefit,
not yours.  If he is master and you, slave;
if to his dominance you must submit;
it follows that he is the purpose of
this process, not you.  You exist to be
the instrument of his best interest.  Ask
yourself:  what is the dark and ugly depth
of his insouciant, soul-less selfishness---
that he cannot accept your love by faith
not sight, without the reassurance of
the collar and the brand?  And why must he
inflict upon you pain---bruises and welts---
so that he might achieve delight?  And why
must he transform you so that who you are
is changed submissively to what you must
become according to his dark dictates?

What is that I have heard just now?  Did you
tear off that leather collar from your throat
and cast it to the floor?  Make your escape
before the guards come back to transport me
to Dagon's House, so that the gathered lords,
masters, and dominants may put me on
display.  These very men, who send for me,
are those who, on the morrow, would have come
to see you collared, branded, and enslaved.
But you will not have disappointed them,
for their appointment with me will prevent
(so let us put it) their attendance on
the House tomorrow.  We part.  Think of me
once in a while, but not submissively.
The love and beauty that indwell you need
no collar and no brand to be expressed;
you do not need to suffer flogs and whips
to bring the right man pleasure.  All these things
are splints upon a weak man's torn manhood,
one that cannot enjoy your womanhood
for its own sake, without assistance.  From
such damnable perverts and drones, be free.

And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines.  And he bowed himself

with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the

people that were therein.  So the dead which he slew at his death were

more than they which he slew in his life.
---Judges 16:30

Starward

[jlc]