Sub Earth.
When you are all dressed up
in your astronaut attire:
corset, fishnets, the knickers with the slit.
but your flight has been grounded,
your launch canceled.
You still climb in, strap up.
All fours on the spanking table,
a line of instruments ready
to use and abuse you,
waiting off to the side,
but while the countdown starts,
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Thwack. One, Sir. Smack. Two, Sir.
The engines don't rumble
there's no fire igniting deep within.
Space is there, right there,
winking above,
But you're down here
an ant
crawling through the dungeon.
Cries and moans
don't turn you off. They hold you.
Here, in reality.
Your shoulder twinges.
You hair is caught in your mouth.
Minor inconveniences
that normally would bleed away
into nothingness
demand your attention.
The voice that talks to you
doesn't echo in the empty chamber
of your mind. You don't
arch like a cat against his hand,
mindlessly press your face into him.
You just exist. Enjoy. Catalogue
the stings and burns and bruises.
You don't fly. You don't soar.
You don't escape.