I will use you

I will use you

Every inch of you.

Your luscious skin, your gorgeous hair, your cheekbones, your eyes, your nose, your mouth. The elegant line of your jaw, your throat, your neck. Your sensual curves, The stunningly sexy shape of your breasts. Your nipples (so easily aroused).

Your back, your belly, your arse, your legs, your ankles, your calves, your thighs. Your arms, your hands, your fingers, your feet, your oh-so-prettily painted toes.

The delicate, exquisite, perfect folds of your sex.

I will use you.

Your glorious curve of your smile. The joyful, soft peal of your laughter. The way you move, the way you eat, the way you talk. The way you say my name. The way you dance. Oh god, the way you dance.

I will use you.

Your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, your imagination. How you analyse, how you consider, how you (sometimes over) react. The way you care. Your honesty, your loyalty, your charity, your generosity, your charm. Your temper, your obstinacy, your tenacity, your strength. Your sometimes stubborn frown. Your warmth.

Your tears sliding hot and unchecked down your lovely face.

I will use you.

Your clothes, your shoes, your scent, your make up, your jewellery. The toys you keep at the back of a bedside drawer.

Your music, your books, your art, your films. The (often rubbish) things you watch on TV. Your work, your hobbies, your interests, your exercise. How you spend your days. Your food, your drink, your wine.

The things that excite you, arouse you, frighten you, sadden you, disturb you. The things that make you want to be hugged.

I will use you.

Every amazing, challenging, wonderful, infuriating, incredible, shy, breathtaking part of you.

Everything that makes you unique, rare and special.

I will use you.

And I will write you.

My heroine, my fantasy, my main protagonist, my key character.

The star of the show.

The woman at the very heart of it.

And you alone, all by yourself, will make it magnificent.

You will turn my untidy jumble of words

into a masterpiece.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago – yet there is always beauty to make into poetry

Art by Marcos Beccari

 

Not all lives matter to me

ALL lives matter

It is not a cliché. Or a slogan. Or a wish. It is a truth.

Whatever sex, shade of skin, home country or country of origin, sexual orientation, religion, age, background, wealth or poverty, tribe, social standing, class or caste.

ALL lives matter.

Not only do all lives matter. But they all matter EQUALLY.

Nobody but nobody, is better or more important than anyone else.

But whoever you are, wherever you are in the world, if other innocent lives matter so little to you that you are prepared to kill, maim, rape, bully, terrorise, harass, subjugate or damage other lives …

Then your life does not matter to me

Not one little bit.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph taken from the web. I was going to use photos of flag waving ISIS extremists or American white supremacists or similar from elsewhere, but I could not bear to look at their foul hate filled faces.

 

Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye

 

As I was deciding what to post today I came upon this I wrote three years ago. I think it has had a couple of outings since. It is a favourite. It recalls a true event that happened in my past in Las Ramblas in Barcelona, a city I love and where I spent much time. Just before posting it the news came through of more awful, tragic events there. I decided to post it anyway because it feels right not to grant those who want to destroy joy and pleasure their wish.

 

Time has become liquid

There is seven of them. They have escaped work, the conference, the day. Comfortable in each other’s company. safe in the velvet night that hovers beyond the candle light, romantic at an outside table beneath the awning sky of a restaurant just off Las Ramblas. The evening is drenched in intimacy and alcohol. They are gently, sometimes noisily, submerged in a warm sea of easy acquaintance which sees them laugh, and chatter, and tell stories, and become friends.

It is getting late. It will be an early start for all of them to travel home to their various countries. Yet clocks mean nothing. They want the time to stretch and yawn, but not show its hands.

But they must go.

He starts to sing. An ancient Leonard Cohen song of leaving that he has known forever from someone else’s life. His voice is hesitant at first, but deep, rich and dark. The others are quiet. Perhaps they do not know the words, or are happy for him to touch the night with the poetry they feel. There is sorrow in the song, but gratitude for what has been shared.

Her voice joins his on the ‘many’ in the fifth line. It is pure and innocent and holy. It lilts and drifts above his own.  It harmonises and caresses and then soars and swoops. It glides and caresses, softens and lifts. It thrills the air, and him. She is an angel from a heavenly choir.

As she sings with him he watches her. Her green eyes stay on him, her brave, almost slavic features are heroic and lovely, bathed in the flickering light. A mane of thick blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she tilts her head towards him.

They reach the close and improvise an ending which dances, then tumbles, falls, and finally soothes like a lullaby, achingly into silence.

It is a rare moment. There is a hushed, almost electric pause before the others applaud and nod appreciative heads. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

They have become connected, combined, kindred, allied, confederate.

Bound.

.

I will always remember the beauty of your voice, the magic of that moment, and the joy of our union that night.

And the memory

of ‘your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm’.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Paul Cheng

This song always reminds me of that night. I hope you enjoy it again – despite today’s horror. And also this early recording of the song itself.

 

 

Realization

Suddenly

she realises

her pulse racing

her heart pounding

her mouth dry

her thoughts tumbling

over themselves

dangerously

that she

is the one he wants

that she

is his fantasy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Michael Liepke

Written a year ago. Yet sometimes relevant.

 

 

Opportunity

 

The things you do not do

when an opportunity arises

you will never do.

Because similar opportunities

are never quite the same

and the original opportunity

will never come again.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Emilii Wilk

 

 

Butterfly Net

Butterfly Net

.

She reads him avidly

hungrily

looking for patterns

for answers

for hints

for clues

for oxygen to fuel

the breathless possibility

that she might be ‘she’

.

Meanwhile

he chases her soul

with a butterfly net

spun from the best

of his words

to capture her

completely.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Pieter Wagemans

This is not new – posted two years ago at least. But I still have the butterfly net somewhere.

 

In dreams

 

I will not be held

responsible

or accountable

or answerable

or culpable.

Nor will I

apologize

or feel guilty

or accept liability

or be judged

or even damned

for all the

dark

delicious

decadent

dirty things

I do to you

in my dreams.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Steve Hanks