we talk too close.
Fireflies, fear and desire,
two ends of the same burning candle.
My love is embedded in me,
my right ventricle or left,
whichever one has the oxygen,
the cell that follows the ghost.
For once in my life, I see myself reflected,
a silver plate to run away the rain,
drown in a sea of oracles and eyes and orbs.
We swim in the Sienne, spheres absorbed,
you tie me to your bed, a spool of silk,
parched and listless lips sewn shut.
Our orchids tremble
we wait for dusk.
Small questions like a brooch, tiny french, a book of poems she cant read, only left with her eyes
Hatpin? harpsichord? She slowly unbuttons. Wary of feathers. Her purse is fireflies and vehement curses from lands where dust is treasured.
On the platform is an old friend. In the hamper is a letter too wet to dry over her shoulder. It is bloody murder in vanishing ink.
The conductor snarls. He says what now? She’s had enough pleasantries and guffaw to stuff an ostrich.
Of all stamps and glands devoured she seeks one wisp of him. A miniature viola from Paraguay sewn into her pocket. A broken nail, post haste.
Nothing to hit, merely a dandelion the tone of a flickering bulb.
Does it matter? A monk a knave a priest? The bells ring. The pigeons fly. She nods at the telegraph kiosk.
I know nothing of freedom, only tickets and transfers ashes, Prague birdsong chasing an avalanche. You my pet, so very cold. Absinthe is sweeter.
My victrola is broken. She yawns blurry pronouns and bloody paws. How much my love have you ruined.
Evangeline is a rattling filament with her bad language. She calls light viper a sliver in ivy spark. It glows so good to get away from crumbs.
Did you know I can read runes without you? This question looms monstrous between them.
Does my heart still beat? Yes. Inside me. Outside here. Away from you. I can hear it. My stupid little heart like spectacles and smithereens.
Meanwhile Evangeline paces floorboards with dusty feet. Coming to and licks blood off her arms and eyes like hell, opening in voltaire’s maw.
I trust she will stay locked in her room. How can a cage keep a bird with no wings? She says all of this in french so Evangeline cant read her mind.
Evangeline is silent on the bed, still, encased in a lace shroud, a cocoon trapped inside a dream. Heartbeat echoes a steady rhythm, Mistress wakes, gasps, and stares at her lover breathless, shocked, her face veiled. Calm, she eyes her beauty, perfect shape and symmetry, curves tattooed in a silk chrysalis.
Wrapped in white, a complex weave, woven hieroglyphics. Her hands gently move over taut ribs and stomach, no seams to tear, no way in, to unravel, to touch her soft skin. Further she caresses, she twitches and starts to move, arching her back, undulating her body, gliding down the bed, the floor, the velveteen walls.
Slowly she crawls, gossamer sprays, she secures herself. She feels everything upside down, collecting stories in her mind, projecting colours through her skin. Colours that once seen render eternity. Colours of lust. Colours that elude tongue, ears, nose, touch, song, sky and earth. Beyond spectra standing in plain sight, humming in an empty cathedral.
It’s the colours they chase in their dreams, it is what they are.
As if space, all known physics and the fulfillment of time is solved in a slant of sunshine, reflected off the right dye on the right day. A colour that only exists in words or silence. Beyond violet, or yellow, as bold as blood or a rose… a beauty simple as black.
The paradise they see. The frills of peacocks tilting in nocturne twilight on a Egyptian scarlet palisade dancer could not compare. Sounds of lust, the sphinx drools with her once mechanical tongue, the scales of a rainbow, a note in a melody, a taste, to flavour her. Mistress positions cushions scared she might fall. Blue and yellow satin spins and turns into a giant parrot, squawks and flies around the room, nesting in a cornice of fleur de lis.
The morning light hits the edges, reflects back and forth across the room, oscillates wildly, spins and projects a passage…
‘look for a knife, tell the trellis a story of loss with edible flowers of eve’
Mistress stands and caresses her binds. Upon her finger a diamond band, needle sounds a wax cylinder, eternal ancient voices, Evangeline their sweet vessel.
‘…cut me free‘ they whisper, ‘cut me free‘ her sweet mouth moans.
Elegant hands tremble, engraved silver blades, no fear, no distractions, delicate love awakened, eye to eye. The oak drawer opens, the parrot swoops and glides, scissors sever the sky.
The first cut, she trembles. Minute incisions, tiny moths nibble their metamorphosis. Evangeline sighs, her mouth sucking silk, she cries close to her lover’s ear. Mistress opens her own legs wide, inside her thighs deft touches, exquisite in knowing that she watches, another tightly bound.
Second cut, must be delicate. Her nipples hard escape the weave, each breast gently reassured with soft tongue flicks. They taste like metal and blood. Voltaire is mesmerised, wanting, having licked them while she sleeps, Evangeline driven mad with pleasure, often wondered why it scratches. He wants to fuck her. Often, Mistress would come home, the place a mess, pigeon feathers, a half eaten head, anger mounted on the varnish. He jumps the balcony and sulks into the street to fuck some other bitches howling in the night.
The mayor’s wife shall be sleepless.
She cuts more. The shear’s slice a hollow sound of sharpened steel passing, pulling threads, cold metal pinches. A narrow valley, lines her wet orchid. Mistress follows the slit and she drips like a cut flower, open, pink and bursting. The lace is soaked with sticky sap she follows the trail of juice to her stem, begging like a thirsty mouth, tongue thrusts worships the forbidden.
The final cut to free this lucid dream, her pointed tips lift and shear her centre bare. Her feet, her legs, navel, breasts, her throat, her lips, to kiss, a tongue to suck, their hands clasp a passionflower, they become scissors falling in velvet.
Originally posted on http://sjw2014.wordpress.com/2014/07/10/lacechallenge-by-abbie-foxton/
Evangeline was transfixed, staring up at that painting, Don Quixote, she tilts as I read. Her head moves side to side, she talks to angels. I ask her what she sees, she is lost in a long daydream. Still, I thought, still, at last, for before she was pacing, fidgeting, unable to focus. Distracted, and I don’t understand why. Distilling her own medicine, she is her own essence. Evangeline’s imagination could transform the world known and unknown, she uses the power of the universe to course through her. Lightening pours through her limbs, she wakes everyone, the pigeons swoop onto the balcony, Voltaire is scandalous. I saw her swing down the storm drain and vanish…
The salon felt cold without Evangeline, no laughter, no ribbons tied to the brass bed head. Only the scent of jasmine and sweet summer berry breath left on the pillow that laid silent next to my head. My arms empty, I tried to fill the void with red velvet cushions held tight in my arms, my circulation cut. A poor substitute, though its soft caress eased my emptiness. Voltaire startled me at midnight. He has a wicked streak, dramatic entrances to get his bowl filled early with whatever morsels I can salvage from the evening’s meal…tonight there was nothing. I could only stare out into the light night, every sound from the street below like ant bites, sharp pinches waking me until weak, stolen in my sleep.
String Of Pearls
Indulgence is a luxurious room, rich dark carved wood, Berber dream weave.
Her hair held back by a spider’s clasp, released…
Dark eyes stare through birds wings, Batik silk slips shoulders
slit long, and a belt unties, a navel dances, walking towards the chair.
Evangeline sits in high back mahogany, waiting.
Ceramic cupped pink flowers and gold dust, sipping tea herbal and honeyed.
Warm grey pebbles rest bare feet, she rubs soft souls, with slow circular strokes upon smooth granite,
soothing and sensuous.
On a cane table, implements of bliss.
a string of pearls,
M masks her eyes in satin.
Under a silver cloche, sweet delicacies popped through plum lips, coconut and green tea,
spice cake a thousand layers heady with vanilla, cardamon, cinnamon and cloves permeates her mouth.
Dragonbeard candy melts a delicious smile, she craves more licks between fingers.
She steals remnants of spun sugar her tongue may have missed.
M removes her blindfold and turns Evangeline backwards, her legs flowing upwards.
She giggles on a backdrop of high varnish.
It’s time for her annointing.
Her head rested, poised for a gush of warmth.
It flows slowly.
Once wet, she sits upright and twirls a trapeze, no ropes, just air.
Oil combs through dripping curls, hands a deep massage, her scalp, she shivers a sweet moan.
Voltaire stops still, awakened by another feline’s murmurings.
Evangeline’s song, a blush and tremble.
In a trance, Mistress projects a play of shadow puppets.
Wayang kulit, the leather silouettes a story, her heart beats gamelan.
She drips wet, her hand led to the balcony doors.
Moist and lamplit eyes, the tower glistens, upon the length of pearls in her hand.
Caress a warm shoulder, a kiss to her neck, repositions her legs.
Her gown is gone, her skin is gold and scented.
One by one, the balls slide hidden inside, locked eyes.
M sees each pearl reflected through flutters, until the strand drips only a clasp.
Purrs become deep panting, she sucks her tongue to calm her.
Without saying a word, M’s face, calm, still,
a soft kiss held.
She pulls the strand fast,
Evangeline gasps a swallow,
into the ground.
Evangeline, nestled in Voltaire’s upholstered chair, biting her bottom lip, sketching shadows. Its clawed and threadbare armrests were now worn down to its dark teak skeleton. Her long legs and painted toes teetered on the edge of needlepoint roses while her hands glided, her concentration fixed on the page. Evangeline’s lithe frame could sculpt itself into shapes – intriguing positions that made it easy for her to use her knees as a table. Her latest flesh easel balanced her page taut between her thighs.
“Evangeline, my love, show me what has made you so quiet for so long”. Being still was an all too rare moment in time for Evangeline. Filled with an effervescence that would often distract her creativity. Mistress got up from her desk and stared at the vision in front of her. Evangeline turned sideways and swung her legs down, holding her work to her chest, coyly trying to avoid its unveiling. She giggled and rubbed her nose, marking the tip with charcoal, her inner kitten showing. “Mistress, I haven’t finished yet!” Her humility and beauty would rip the Mistress’s heart. Evangeline was an exquisite artist. Sometimes she would sketch dreams. Frightening and beautiful abstracts that freed her smile once they were completed. The grey, green, gloom before sunset couldn’t dampen her presence today, she shines in storms.
Evangeline would draw side by side with Parisian masters, but not by traditional methods. No studios, her art was honed on the backstreets of Montmartre. She would sketch on doorsteps, in bordello lounges, park benches and on the steps of the Sacre Coeur, waiting for her mother, Katarina. Theirs was a street life, a day to day, hour to hour existence relying on fate. Many a hungry artist repayed her mother’s quick hands deep in zippers or moist lips in exchange for lessons, old brushes and stale oils for Evangeline to work with.
Mistress’s mind wandered back to the first time she laid eyes on Evangeline. Cool September lights shone at the iron gates of the Metropolitain. Her mother was sickly yellowed with jaundice. Mistress crouched before them and asked Evangeline if they were safe. A sweet angel looked into her eyes and whispered “I can see butterflies dancing above your head”. It was at that moment, she fell in love…
Evangeline, sighed and dropped her shoulders, reluctantly turning the pad towards her Mistress. In front of her was a charcoal drawing, fine and intricate, more detailed than a photograph. Shades of noir reflected back a portrait of herself, deep in thought, writing at her desk. She found it hard to fathom, how Evangeline could replicate her mood, faced away in her mind.
“Oh, Evangeline…” The Mistress’s eyes began to glisten, threatening to tear stain her cheeks. Evangeline’s eyes lit bright, she knew by her reaction that it pleased her Mistress. Evangeline sighed through loved eyes, they owned each others heart, a permanent place protected, unconditional.
She turned the side of her hand towards her eyes and wiped away their pooled moisture. The parchment she had been working on earlier sat exposed on her desk. Reading over the dramatic cursive once , Mistress finished the final lines with more ink. Barefoot shrouded in red satin, she walked over to Evangeline, knelt down in front of her and handed her the piece of paper.
Mistress stared at unsure eyes and diffused them with a touch. She took the sketch pad from her lap and placed it gently on the rug. Evangeline reclined into the large back of the chair, and stared at the text. Mistress knelt down before her. Her hands cannot resist the pull of contours, warmth smoothing her semi nakedness. Evangeline’s bow lips glistened, soft, full and defined. They needed to be traced slowly with a tongue tip. Her mouth parted slightly allowing Mistress to lean in too taste her. Sweet saliva strands licked away as their tongues joined, swirled in a rhythmic lust, stirring currents.
Breathe… “It is perfect Evangeline, I am lost for words – thank you for my portrait”. Evangeline’s smile grew even bigger and she looked onto the page that Mistress had given her. “Read to me angel”.
Evangeline, propped a cushion behind her back, ready to recite. In a swift move, Mistress cupped Evangeline’s sweet cheeks and brought them close to the edge of the chair, easing her muse into a perfect position. “Read to me now love”.
Evangeline, held the paper over her face and began to recite. Slowly, each line danced with her Mistress’s tongue deep inside her. She devoured her, lifting her high, her slender legs wrapped tight around strong shoulders. Mistress’s hungry mouth tasted, wild strokes punctuated, they played together climaxing in words, in love.
Midnight tarte tatin, after spirit zinc,
bubbles burning menthol, la fez leer and lust.
A chocolate cup for my Evangeline,
sweet bitter,my everything.
Droplets, rare pearls on vellum,
dance a black slow cursive, dried blood.
Crystalize this aching well,
sharp carved to cut deep shards, splinter a comet,
a comment, a common place.
Trust centre’s ache, injects me,
pumps and spills,this night of ink stained hands.
Length slithers a play with moisture,
we collide a soft caress,a breath and subtle touch.
Only shadows watch as we pass through
each other’s sweet dabs in axis,
becoming one in essence,