Untitled Sonnets by an Ex-Submariner

By K.D. Battle

Visited the Four Floors of Whores in Singapore—
I wish I could say I didn’t, but I did, but I didn’t partake, just go with it.
Prostitution more prevalent than any QANON mom could imagine or
Conceive, a literal mall with four floors of whores. One may submit
To any manner of choosing but every floor gets progressively kinkier
Or darker, or little people-er, or more expensive, or quote exotic, or more morally reprehensible.
Most stayed and played first floor, with brothels dressed up as sports bars,
Towers of Tiger Beer, Brooks bailed for a massage and tug.
Formaldehyde is in Tiger Beer, still mad when house girls drink with us—
I did not pay for you, implying that I did pay for formaldehyde, implying worse.
Wanted us to dance, we wanted formaldehyde for keeping dead organs preserved;
Wanted us to take them away from there, Stevio fancied one, danced for one verse or
Fifteen, working girl working two years or more, a daughter before, branded in herd.
He wanted to fuck her love her save her, fucker, in Texas, he’d hang for what I overheard.

I don’t simply seek to entertain you:
I want to teach you how to live better.
Forgive ourselves for mistakes, making due
With existence that couldn’t be wetter
And tedious most of the time, really.
But tedium is of the mind, my friend,
As is much of your suffering, silly.
Practice gratitude, you say, to what end?
To no end, again and again, turn cheek.
Preached by both the Buddha and Jesus Christ,
We must not forget to be humble, meek,
And find joy in this jubilee called life.
You will need to work, however, know that
You won’t have an easy time on The Path.

Another story about four whorey floors, moreover
We bought absinthe and smokes that night, wholly unmoored.
We four had closed the doors over four chiefs with wives with whores,
Hypocritical doorknobs, believing for a moment that sanctity survived,
America protected, certainly not women. Chief Batts batted lashes
Lacing arms, led underwater Sunday Service for years.
Once a cheating weasel, struggled with the sea,
Men. Overseas, cig packs picture dead babies and black lungs.
Three smokes, two girls approached, our one bottle of green absinthe said,
They will make sex, looked haggard, deemed unfit to work inside,
For those poor whores linger far outside those doors.
For a low price, please sir, they begged to make sex, sucky sucky, please!
But we smoked Cowboy Killers outside a five-star hotel with Christmas interiors
Instead, unwilling to support the sexual slavery enjoyed by our superiors.

Steel yourself against the onslaught of your mistakes, their grim karmas yet to be.
Fear not, for you are not alone in this endeavor: we contain multitudes, bundles
Of incongruities, inconsistencies we often deem incompatible & put to rest.
Listen to the universe & truly work hard, hear the Stoic Zen Masters & be humble;
The Tibetans & other mahatmas really have charted a path, though stay wary
Of dogma—hesitate to trust any holy scripture depicting other as lesser consciousness.
But the way, day to day, is about forgiveness friend, including yourself—especially yourself.
Shine your light in your local corner of this incalculable existence; aren’t you ecstatic
To have even been born at all? Oh my god, have you had warm bread? Pungent cheese, are you
Fucking kidding me? Get a grip, this shit is so dope—are you aware of your own origins
Of star dust, isn’t that wild? I let all my voices run free & we’ve achieved a quorum.
But it is unbecoming to be so preachy, pulling back reins, really just consider meditation.
Your breath moves the entire universe, however minutely, yet you ripple across Aether and
You are learning, so forgive yourself, give effort and kill ego. Diligence and Ehipassiko, traveler.

Still in the Four Floors of Whores, Signapore’s
Finest purveyor of pussy this side the Indian Ocean.
Found a gin and tonic, not formaldehyde bubbly beer, found an Angel on his own;
Petty Officer Angel’s proclivity for prostitutes
Well known, he’d ship stories of Honolulu massages for friendship on ship.
Bar mirror shiny and white, like Angel’s
Preferred pussy vehicle, make it Asian, he didn’t care:
Thai curry, Singapore noodles, miso ramen, it was all still wet.
Women who he wanted wanted me to touch; I climbed on top
Of the bar, got free drinks with my gymnast’s splits, never touched butt
Made them scream wild, two whores—two women—wanted Kyle.
Mary returned, put my palm on her patinaed puta, pubes pricking,
Neck smell of vanilla and flesh, island skin and sex, sorrow. She
Missed her mark, but I saw her naked straddling Angel cock that night on the hotel floor.

****

K.D. Battle seeks life outside the lines: he is a Navy submarine veteran, a composer, lyricist, and librettist of musical theatre, and a writing teacher with over half a decade of experience. His writing has been published or awarded in Writer’s Digest, Vita Poetica, and Proud to Be: Writing By American Warriors, Vol. 13. Battle lives with his wife, son, and dogs, and he invites you to live a life of kindness, grit, and curiosity.